


pyrrhic

by twigcollins



Series: hawkes and hounds [8]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Another such victory and I am undone”  </p><p>One of those end of act two stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bran

Bran slips in the gravel at the top of the garden stairs, cursing louder than he ought to as he scrapes his hands on the stones. He’s up in the next moment, almost sprightly for a man his age if he ignores the way his left knee wobbles. Absently brushing at the dust and dirt and what Bran realizes are a few crumbs of his dinner still clinging to his coat. He wonders just why in the world he’s bothering - and this is why no one has any respect for them, and most haven’t bothered pretending in years. 

When he looks up again, it’s right into the frightened eyes of two maids huddled together in one of the garden sheds, and he damned well knows they shouldn’t be here because _he_ shouldn’t be here, the keen alarm of his own self-preservation ringing more than loud enough to drown out the rest of his thoughts.

“Where did you even come from? Get out of here, quickly. Go _home_.”

The girls cling to each other, staring at him as if he’s hiding some greater plan - as if anyone had ever bothered to make one for this. Dumar had come the closest, in those quiet moments after one of their less successful meetings - if the Arishok wanted Kirkwall, the best plan would be to see if he’d take Meredith along with it, and solve all their problems in a go.

It had made Bran laugh, back when he still knew how.

He stares, but neither girl so much as blinks, too frightened to take his warning or just too aware of what the Seneschal is for, making random declarations no one ever, _ever_ listens to. 

“Maker save us… then stay here if you must, but keep quiet, and don’t let yourselves be seen!”

They nod, still silent, and duck down further into the corner, behind the tools and sacks and soil and he’s moving again toward the Keep, and as long as he’s moving he can tell himself there’s actually a strategy waiting to meet him, and a goal.

A few crickets are singing to each other, falling silent as he passes, but Bran can already hear the distant, growing roar, a rising echo over the false calm of night. The Qunari are finally making their march on Kirkwall, dividing the city with that fabled, perfect precision. He’s already passed one row of guardsmen moving fast in the opposite direction, a wall of steel and determination, but Bran’s heard stories of the Qunari and read enough reports of his own to be all too aware of their chances.

It’ll be like just that mad Antivan city, where they send bulls charging right down through the narrow streets.

Bran pretends it matters that he’s trying to be cautious, the grounds of the Keep as silent and abandoned as a Blighted ruin and damn him for having enough of his wits about him to start dabbling in poetry. His job is not always tedium and monotony - occasionally it’s even dangerous, but it has always had the decency to be horrible in simple, routine ways. A death threat, the occasional mugging or an extremely rare back-alley beating - and fewer of those as the years have gone on, thankfully. What’s happening out there now is nothing like what Bran knows, grand in scale and epic in scope. Men like him do not tend to survive such glories in the same number of pieces they start out in.

A fact neatly proven when he reaches the next door only to have it hold fast under his hand, and before Bran can catch himself he’s plowed straight into it. He curses again, stumbling back to cradle a wrist that’s not quite broken but far from amused.

“Serrah? Seneschal, is that you?”

The door opens - one of the city guard, not a Templar, not that Bran has any illusions as to if they’ll come - and before he can think to say anything the man’s dragging him through, barring it fast behind him. Which narrows Bran’s escape routes to nothing, not that he’d come here for his own security, but it still feels entirely too final now. Yes, this is all turning out to be even less fun than those ten minutes the Carta had negotiated the price of his overlooking a few ports and warehouses with the benefits of being allowed to keep his balls through midwinter.

“It’s good to see you’re safe, ser.”

Empty words - no one ever thinks it’s good to see Bran do anything, let alone exist. He is the painting hung on the wall because a painting ought to be there, not because anyone gives a damn for what’s in the frame - but this guard is young, shockingly so, and just like the maids Bran’s left behind he’s obviously hoping the Seneschal will know what to do. It’s a title, right? People with titles ought to have some idea what in the Maker’s name is going on.

You’d think there’d be a law.

“Where’s the Guard-Captain?” Bran keeps moving toward the main hall, the polished floors oddly bright in the torchlight - everything lit up now, inside and out - and his footsteps too loud and even though he’s been here with the Keep at all hours, working through the night with the Viscount until the dawn blurred everything senseless, it still feels foreign and strange and wrong tonight. 

A window is open somewhere, and perhaps the roar that sounds like the sea but is not the sea, the clash of steel-on-steel is much closer than before.

“We’re not sure. The last we’d heard, she went down to the docks to speak with the Arishok. Serrah Hawke was with her.”

Well, _that_ explains everything. Bran’s been keeping odds, for just what bit of her foolishness will be the last the city can bear - up until these last few days it had been running even odds between the Qunari and that entitled git of a prince who’d been following at her heels, the Chantry fool who’d been doing everything he could to drag Kirkwall into Starkhaven’s concerns. As if they needed to borrow problems from the neighbors.

Much as he hates to, Bran has to blunt those uncharitable thoughts, at least a little. Hawke might be a constant irritation, so happy to rock a boat that’s already leaking, and he’s never quite sure if she’s _that_ ignorant or simply doesn’t care. Maybe she’d been too lenient, too willing to entertain Saemus’ folly - but given what had happened, Bran doubts anything in this world could have checked the boy in time. Clear enough, that Hawke had felt the grief of losing him as hard as anyone, real shame in her eyes when she’d faced Dumar, and as close as he’d ever seen her come to tears.

Ruined, the way they’d all been ruined, the unbearable feeling of some distant door swinging shut, the glimpse of some brighter place lost forever.

“The Viscount is here?” 

Bran’s rather sure of the answer, the reason he’d come here first instead of the estate. Dumar doesn’t really go home anymore. He doesn’t do much of anything anymore. 

“Still in his office. We tried to get him to safety, but… he said he was fine. We didn’t…”

Didn’t have the time to waste on a useless, broken-down old man. Bran waves away the rest, before he has to hear the boy try to think of a polite way to say it.

—————————————

“No, _you’re_ going to tell me who’s in charge and how they’re taking care of this! It’s an outrage!”

The voice booms out through the room, and as he reaches the top stair Bran realizes things are not as deserted as he’d thought, and he is nowhere near the first to arrive. A whole flock of nobles mill about the hall, entire families hurriedly assembled and gathered together, wide-eyed with confusion and either frightened or haughtily trying to cover their fear. Except for one man shouting at the guard, and a few of his friends scowling for show, the rest of them are all but silent - and there’s a thing Bran had never thought he’d live to see. 

He can hear pounding at the front of the hall, what might be some sort of makeshift barricade, or even the sound of those on the outside still trying to get in, to find shelter, though he cannot imagine what they think will help them here.

“Serrah, please…”

Bran could tell the guard to save his strength - he recognizes the angry noble, if not by name than by where he fits in on the list of daily troubles - and _Seigneur du_ Massive Credit Extension is no stranger to the Seneschal’s accounts. Fortunately for the guard, his arrival has been duly noted, and Bran is swiftly surrounded by a half-circle of angry nobles - ah, home again.

“You!” The lord bellows as the rest glare and seethe and cover up their fear, “what in the thrice-damned Void is going on here?”

“It would appear we are about to be attacked by the Qunari.” Bran says, and he doesn’t mean to sound quite _that_ sarcastic but it’s certainly welcome. 

The Arishok never found whatever Hawke said he was looking for, or it had all been a lie all along, or both, or neither, and why not do a little of the killing and converting, since they were in the neighborhood? With all the time they’ve had to enjoy Kirkwall, Bran assumes there will be more of the former than the latter - which means they’re all in very serious trouble and he will likely never see a thin copper of any of the money this band of idiots owes the city.

Bran almost says it, almost says a lot of things, but over _Seigneur du Idiot’s_ shoulder Bran can see a woman with a child cradled in her arms and another clinging fast to her side, small fingers mangling the hem on her very fine gown. Her mouth is set in a thin, grim line, and she’s holding on to them so tightly that Bran’s sure she’s already heard what he has - the very first thing the ox-men do is to take the children away.

“We can’t do this here.” Bran says, lowering his voice, “it’s going to cause a panic.”

“We’re _already_ panicked, you shit!” The man snaps back, because no one listens to Bran, _especially_ when he’s trying to be reasonable. “Where’s the Viscount, then? He ought to be dealing with this! He ought to have dealt with it ages ago!”

Bran swears he can actually hear his temper go. Unusual, really, but it is rather late and the world’s falling to pieces and the man owes them _so much money_. 

“If you don’t like the way he’s dealing with it, feel free to pick up a damned sword and charge!” 

A mistake, he knows that even as cold regret instantly floods the anger, and he sees the man’s hands clench into fists. Half a moment later, an armored glove grabs for the noble’s arm, spinning him around before Bran has a chance to meet the Qunari fashionably pre-battered. 

It’s a guardswoman, not the Guard-Captain but of her make and mettle, with eyes as hard and unyielding as the plate she wears.

“Ser, I need you to calm down, or I will calm you down.”

“You dare speak to me like that? I refuse to be threatened by some filthy, gutter-guarding-”

In only a few years, Guard-Captain Aveline’s managed to greatly improve the quality of those under her command, and the woman lays him out with a single punch. He drops without a sound, only one muffled cry from someone too well-bred to appreciate the sudden silence. The guard snaps her fingers, gesturing toward the men left staring slack-jawed at their fallen leader.

“Go on then, pick him up and get him down to the barracks! Now! All of you! It’s the best place in the Keep for a defense!” She yells, and in a much lower voice, as if to herself, “the only sodding place we’ve _got_.” 

She turns, and her eyes lock on them, all three of them standing still as the nervous nobles shuffle out of the room. Bran all but envies the fallen lord, it looks almost peaceful being dragged off in an unconscious heap.

“Where’ve you been, then?!” 

She scowls at the young guard, and the look she shoots Bran is familiar enough, obviously wishing the Seneschal were another squadron or a siege engine or even a sofa they might shove in front of a door. It’s not like Bran is at all useful as he is, so her scorn is only fair. The guardswoman grabs the younger man, all but throwing him toward the front of the Keep. “Get up there and help them with the barricade. We don’t have much time.”

Bran watches him go, disappearing through the door, and realizes there is a good chance he’s watching the boy rush right to his death. At least his own son is safe, off visiting friends in Tantervale and well away from this madness. He wonders what’s happening in the city. It has to be absolute chaos, Kirkwall a disaster searching for an excuse at the best of times, and this, these last few fraught months have been anything but.

He thinks of the Rose. He thinks of Serendipity, and the wry, knowing look on her face for just such an occasion. As much a cynic as he is, though more prone to laughing about it. It is what keeps him coming back, when he can’t imagine what romance is supposed to feel like anymore or if he even believes it exists. A good thing, really, that his wife died so young, before either of them had the chance to meet the man he turned out to be. The kind who pays for elves with stage names to smile at him in the dark, with wry and knowing looks that remind him he has no illusions left to lose about the world and that he’s the better for it. 

Bran can’t imagine the Qunari think much of whores - but then again, the fragrant petals of the Rose don’t think much of being told their place and their business, and he can't think of any rampaging army that would be much worse than their night’s usual clientele, especially when the ale starts flowing.

He thinks of Serendipity, and doesn’t even know what it is he’s hoping for, but Bran hopes it regardless.

“I don’t suppose you know what’s going on, ser?” The guardswoman says, studying him close, and has her answer before Bran can even try to disappoint her. 

He glances toward the barracks. “How many are left?”

A slight shrug of a well-armored shoulder. “Enough for a squad, not much more than that. A few archers, some swords. Donnic went out with the rest, said they’d set up positions and send some back, but - no one’s come back. We haven’t heard from the Templars, neither.”

If the Qunari get to the Gallows, if they reach the mages it will be a bloodbath, though Bran doubts that’s the first thought on Meredith’s mind.

“Any word on the Grand Cleric?”

She grimaces. “If you don’t know, I can’t help you.”

Of anyone tonight, Elthina has the least to worry about, Bran is certain of that. Well protected by the Knight-Commander, surrounded by those who’d gladly give up their lives to see her safe. The kindly, wise, pleasantly benign Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. As tactically benevolent as the Chantry could ever have hoped for - and Bran can’t bring himself to hate her, even knowing it’s true.

“Serrah!” An archer sprinting from the higher hall, taking the stairs in twos. “Maker save us, they’re on their way.”

“How many?”

The guard’s good enough not to let the panic show on his face, though Bran’s certain he’s not returning the favor. “Looks like damn near all of them. Carving a path right to us.”

The woman nods, and the archer disappears as quickly as he came.

“I’ll give you what time I can, ser. I don’t know how much that will be.” 

It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking to him, and Bran nods dumbly. He’s lost his pace in this conversation, it’s all going too fast. If he had a moment or two to catch his breath he’d be all right. If they could just start this whole day all over again, give or take the last ten years, he’s sure he’d be fine.

“You might want this.”

The woman hands him a sword. Bran takes it without thinking, the point clanging sharply against the ground as he badly misjudges its weight, his still-wounded wrist throbbing with new pain. 

It’s the moment that he realizes just how truly desperate this is, and that he really is going to die.

——————————————

Over half his life, Bran thinks, that he’s devoted himself to a hallway. Occasionally a staircase. Entire days spent moving perhaps a full three feet if he’s fortunate, bringing news to make the Viscount’s life more difficult or trying to wring something palatable out of his response. The daily business of barely being tolerated while fighting endless complications for questionable gains. 

He’s been here even longer than Dumar, not that anyone remembers. Bran cut his teeth on those final days with Threnhold, a minor clerk then, of no real importance - and he’s come to appreciate the value in being unnoticed and unremarkable. Important people get memorialized in the great epics of history, usually just before they get set on fire or torn to pieces or devoured in some rather memorable way.

Threnhold had been an important man, and Bran’s heard all the bickering, back and forth and back again, growing worse whenever Meredith rattles her sabers in the nobles’ direction. The value, the virtue of all that he’d done, and why, and what it all meant in the end. As far as Bran could tell, none of it amounted to the weakest piss up the longest rope - Perrin a self-serving asshole and Guylian a self-righteous asshole, the Orlesians all bastards because… well, _Orlesians_ and it had been all Bran could do then just to keep his head down and not end up as some punctuation on a footnote in history, a nameless addition to the glory of the final body count.

The same sort of way this is all going to end, if he keeps on with it. Bran ignores that thought as he reaches the threshold, pausing just before his knuckles rap against the door.

“Lord Viscount? Are you there?”

No answer, and even with the rising chaos Bran has to take a steadying breath before he turns the knob. Preparing himself for the worst, every time half-certain that he’s going to find a body and wondering if it wouldn’t be for the best and it’s not even been a week. Not a week, even less than that since the funeral, and the weight of the Viscount’s grief hits him like a silent landslide each time he opens the door.

The Viscount stands near the windows, what is now his favored place, hands clasped behind his back and looking out at nothing. Bran can’t hear the Qunari getting closer, but of course they have to be. He pauses to set the sword down, not worth pretending he might know what else to do with it.

“…Lord Dumar?”

“They are quite remarkable, aren’t they? The passion, the single-minded dedication. I had wondered for so long what my son saw in them, but it all seems quite obvious now. Such… certainty. Were you ever so sure of anything in your life?”

“If we hurry, we might…” Bran fumbles, so difficult to sound determined when he doesn’t believe it, “… there’s still time.”

The Viscount lets out a soft, amused sound, not quite laughter. He looks ancient, older than he did a week ago, older than anyone could be and still be living. 

“Oh, I very much doubt that.”

It was never going to be good. It was never going to be glory and praise and banners in the streets, they’d known that right from the start. Dumar was barely even a puppet, just an extra shell in the game while Meredith passed her power around and everyone, absolutely everyone knew it. 

Still, someone had to make a go of it, didn’t they? To shrug aside honor for dedication, take up the harness and work the load unnoticed because if they didn’t, who would? Dealing with all those problems that didn’t get written about in the annals of history - the courts that were never fair enough, or crooked at the wrong angles. The sanitation that was never good enough _before_ there were mabari all over the streets. All the permits and schedules and taxes and tariffs and _more_ taxes and every tedious, unglamorous thing no one noticed until it wasn’t done.

Bran still can’t quite say how it happened, the logic that had pulled him from obscurity into… well, a new sort of obscurity. One that came with a title and infinitely more scorn. At first he thought Meredith would run them all out before the dust had settled, sweep it clear, but he’d been there and he’d been brought before her. Asked about his family, his job, his associations, with the Knight-Commander more bored with every answer he gave, until she’d passed him off to another Templar, who’d passed him off to another. At the end they’d just stopped talking to him altogether and he was Seneschal to a Viscount that no one wanted, no one respected or thought of until they needed a place to set their problems down.

Threnhold mistook being loud for being commanding, and mispronouncing his Orlesian as the sharpest of wit. Meredith preferred to take her subtlety straight to the forge, to hammer her opponents bloody while it was still red from the fire. Bran had watched it all, for years, and never thought either of them more than sadly absurd, but there was no arguing with the results. Threnhold had rattled the city’s chains enough to ensure his destruction, had even managed to convince half the city he’d done it for their sake on the way down. Meredith had wanted Kirkwall, and she’d taken it, hadn’t she? Beaten down the old Viscount without hesitation and paused just long enough for the nobles to know what it meant, when she’d all but forcibly installed Dumar in his place.

Dumar isn’t ‘decisive’ like Threnhold was - no matter how many of those decisions were foolish ones. He isn’t ruthless or single-minded like Meredith - who takes credit for her gains but never for her mistakes, and likely does not know the meaning of collateral damage. If anything, Dumar is well-matched to the Grand Cleric - he listens, and pays attention, and sees Kirkwall as something other than the setting for his own great drama. He sees the lives of the people of the city as more than pieces to be moved about for his benefit - but he is not Elthina, and so they hate him for it. The nobles loathe him and the rabble mock him and still the Viscount keeps on, doing all that he can, never a victory in his name, never a defeat not laid at his door.

How does the Grand Cleric get away with it? All her power and yet somehow it’s enough for her to smile and nod and let Meredith do as she will, It’s all well and fine just to be an old woman who’s nice to people - and Bran thinks he could be fairly beatific too, if all of his failings were excused, if he could pass each day just being polite and reciting a few verses that everyone agreed were so terribly wise. What great gift did Elthina bring the city, that Dumar hadn’t polished to make it shine? What marvels of politics and understanding did she ever bring about, that Dumar hadn’t fretted and worked over first, burning candles to guttering wicks with Bran right there beside him.

A lifetime’s worth of service to Maker and country and Chantry, and at the end they’d looked him over and shook their heads and taken his son from him. Saemus murdered in a fit of Chantry pique and truly sorry and what a tragedy and well, can you blame us and what did he expect, running off with those Qunari?

Bran had been there, so many more years ago than it feels like, when the Viscount lit his wife’s pyre, with Saemus watching quietly in the midwife’s arms. As small as he was, the boy had still been so quiet - thoughtful, like his father, and destined to be punished for it and Bran had known it from the start. He should have pushed his son into making some better acquaintance, despite their difference in ages. Despite the politics, of not wanting to chain his child’s ambitions to that stone, of not wanting to make any kind of target - and so he didn’t, did he, and his son is still alive. 

Bran’s surprised he still has it in him for the relief and regret and shame of that, and Maker, what if he could have changed it? All of it? What if he could have, and he never tried. What if he should have been some other man all along.

“Where is the Knight-Commander?” 

No urgency in Dumar’s voice, hardly even curiosity. It is simply what is supposed to be said, even if they both know the answer perfectly well. Whatever Meredith is doing, their lives are of absolutely no concern to her. 

“Serrah Hawke?”

Bran frowns, grumbling like a child - he can’t help it, and is rewarded with the slightest chuckle from the Viscount, the barest flicker of the man he’d known. He wonders, not for the first time, what Dumar had seen in her, why she’d become an ally - she’s no lady of Kirkwall, whatever title she might claim. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, the Viscount had always been a bit of an idealist, had quietly held onto it all this time despite a city’s worth of evidence to the contrary. 

He hopes he’s wrong, that Dumar still had that much to lose. He’d give a great deal to be wrong.

“Out there, somewhere. No doubt making things more difficult.” Although if Hawke did wish to get involved in this, _now would be a good time_.

Bran half-expects the Viscount to tease him, that he can’t hate her half as much as he’d like because, whatever her methods, she does tend to get the job done. Instead, Dumar looks at him with what seems uncomfortably like pity, as if the Seneschal’s the one who’s had anything to lose.

“Do you regret it, Bran? This? All your life, for this? Was there ever a single day you _didn’t_ regret it? Imagine what you might have done elsewise, had it not been for...” he shakes his head, “I’m so terribly sorry, Bran. Truly, I am.” 

No glory, never glory… but there had been moments, hadn’t there? Mixed in among the wreckage, those little glimmers of victory that had him dragging himself out of bed in the morning - whatever bed it might be. He’s not a good man, Bran has long since reconciled himself to that, but there had been a certain satisfaction in seeing that the city wasn’t choking on rubbish, that the air was clean in the day because they’d gotten the foundries running at night and the worst of them out of Kirkwall proper and into the countryside despite their grumbling. Kept the ones that remained from dumping their still-flaming chaff directly into Lowtown. Hardly perfect, but it had kept the damned place from burning to the stones every other summer. 

Or how they’d handled the Blight year and all its aftershocks, and it hadn’t been easy and at times hadn’t seemed possible, but they’d made it happen. Ferelden barbarians at the gates - and then as neighbors, as workers and family and new Free Marchers - and the best Guard-Captain Bran’s seen in at least twenty years.

The occasional victory even over Meredith herself, though it usually took the Grand Cleric’s attention to tip that scale. Elthina suggesting a gentler touch with the apostates than kicking every damned door in on the slightest suspicion of magic, of snatching away screaming children in the middle of the night. Working with the city guard instead of against them, chipping away at those Templar walls of secrecy, as thick and unyielding as any in the Gallows. 

It was never enough, but at least it was something - and Dumar still knew when he was being played, _always_ , even when he couldn’t do more than take note of it. He’d done all he could with what he had to work with, one of those virtues the Chantry always crowed about - and this, Bran wants to shout back at them, _this_ is the real truth of it. The end result of a life humbly lived. No wonder Threnhold had roared his way to the grave, that Meredith preferred to keep her mercy sheathed and forgotten.

No wonder the Magisters had clawed their way to damnation for the faintest chance at glory - what did it matter, in the end, if this was the reward for virtue?

“Marlowe, for the Maker’s sake! We have to try. _Please_.”

It won’t work. Bran knows that even as he speaks. He has considerable experience with empty words.

It isn’t that much of a distance, from the Viscount’s office to the Keep’s main hall. Whatever happened down below, Bran was certain he’d hear it - is expecting to hear it at any moment, the crash of wood and pounding feet and surely then, the screaming. Surely some announcement of the battle they are about to fight and most likely lose so that Meredith can gain her victory elsewhere.

Bran will wonder exactly what happened, later on, being crushed and shoved together in an indignity that borders on macabre satisfaction - the great noble families of Kirkwall reduced to a hushed and milling herd, all but the most deluded bluff and bluster far gone. All the posing and posturing vanished into stark terror, reduced to what he always knew they were. 

An almost satisfying feeling, if he wasn’t just as frightened as the rest of them - and if Bran weren’t here now, feeling horror spark a path right up his spine as he hears the door creak open behind him. A gentle sound, with no great roar of battle behind it, no sound of dying men, the silence far more terrifying than all of these.

A lone Qunari stands in the threshold, somehow taking up more space than the doorway has to offer, and if it weren’t for the blade slowly dripping blood down onto the stone it would seem as if the guards in the Keep had never been there at all.

“So, the Arishok finally wishes for his audience?”

The Viscount stands as noble and proud as Bran has ever seen him, his shoulders straight, his gaze clear. His only audience this single soldier, with those pure black eyes that show neither respect nor scorn and Bran - not thinking, not breathing - does what may be the only brave thing he’s done in his whole life. 

Brave, and futile, and really rather incredibly stupid, to move in front of the Viscount, to stand between this enemy and his goal. The Qunari takes a step forward, and Bran trembles and wonders what in the world he thinks this will accomplish and just how fast he’ll be dead and what idiotic expression he’ll be wearing to the grave.

He’s reaching for the sword he can’t use, that he won’t even get to in time when Dumar’s hand gently catches his arm.

“No, Bran. There’s no need for more of this. There’s no need.”

He turns, but the Viscount is already at his side, already moving past. A small, quiet smile on his face, the kind that belongs in a story that will never be written, that hurts like nothing has ever hurt him before. No fear or apprehension, just a utter stillness. A perfect peace, far beyond this insanity and foolishness, where nothing can reach him, no matter the sharpness of its sword or the size of its army. 

It is just another day in Kirkwall, just another bit of nonsense to be fretted through, and Bran can’t say another word around the stone in his throat, as Dumar nods at him - and that smile. Oh Maker, that smile. 

“I’ve kept him waiting long enough, don’t you think?”


	2. Hawke

It’s not the kind of surprise it’s supposed to be, when the Qunari finally attack, and not just because of all that’s gone wrong. 

The ones who walk away from this will say they always saw it coming, right from the moment they landed. Hawke won’t say anything because if she does it will sound like she agrees with them. As if all she thinks all the Qunari are good for is conquer and slaughter and it’s both true and not true. It doesn’t mean what they think it means and it never meant she was on Kirkwall’s side.

So Hawke will keep her silence even though she’d been there, she’d stood outside the docks on that very first visit, listening to the gates of the Qunari compound creak shut behind her. Hawke had leaned back on her heels, shut her eyes and let the world fade away just for a moment, just for one deep, steadying breath - and she’d known it would all come to this in the end.

It returns to her, that knowing, as she and Aveline run right over the spot she’d been standing, with the taste of fire and ash now heavy in the air. It’s the same feeling as it was, in the way her heart beats too fast, how the air is charged and crackling against her skin - not quite foreboding, not quite anticipation.

The same as it was in Lothering, whenever there were Templars in town watching too close, paying attention to what they ought not. When she’d known without looking to step between them and Bethany and hurry out of sight. How she’d smuggled for a whole year and never got caught, the way no one ever came close. Even Athenril thought it was her sister, some secret magic trick Bethany wouldn’t share, the way Hawke always managed to be where the attention wasn’t.

The same part of her that knew it took a special kind of stupid to stand before the Arishok, to be there in full view of such power and let him know her by name. So of course Hawke had gone and done it anyway. 

No reason at the time to think her visit meant anything at all. Memorable only for likely being a bit more of a half-assed embarrassment than the Qunari were used to, even from Kirkwall - but Hawke always had the highest standards for her low standards. Only Fenris’ intervention had caught the Arishok’s interest then, at least enough to tell them to get out, rather than having them pitched out in pieces.

No point in thinking she’d ever see the place again, let alone that the Arishok would call on her. That she’d ever find herself as some sort of mediator, and then _basalit-an_ , for whatever that was worth. It’s too absurd to be true, that of all the people in Thedas, _she’s_ the one here in the middle of it.

Except for the part of her that had known it all along.

A smarter person would bother with regrets, but Hawke’s always had a bit of a problem where danger and curiosity meet. The Qunari were like nothing she could have imagined, menacing and fascinating in equal measure, and really… not big on clothes, not that she could blame them. Another part of that famed tactical prowess, perhaps? Hawke certainly found it difficult to imagine strategies when most of her thoughts were too busy being wildly inappropriate. Isabela might have had something to say about that, the hazards of being turned on by your imminent demise.

But Hawke’s never going to see her again.

The Chasind fought bare on occasion, she’d heard. Painted up to match the dogs - but against the Qunari even the best of them would surely have quailed and quivered, nothing more than little children playing at war. Standing on a dingy dock, so far from his homeland, and the Arishok was still indomitable in a way most weren’t sitting crowned in their own throne rooms. No need for impressive displays or relics of glory or grand speeches, just muscle and bone and those frankly unnecessary horns. It was rather easy to see why the Tevinters had their hands full just holding their own.

Absolute power under perfect control. It didn’t take a whole lot of sense to figure out who she’d been presented to, even for a girl from the sticks.

Of course, Hawke had asked anyway. Couldn’t help herself, not with Fenris adding surprise translator to his already impressive lineup of skills. She’d given the question her best dumb-as-a-fencepost Ferelden drawl the moment they’d hit the docks.

“So… what’s an Arishok?”

Oh, the look on Fenris’ face. Hawke had snickered all the way back to Lowtown.

She tries not to think about it, where he might be now, and if he’s safe with Kirkwall falling to pieces around them. He has to be alive, has to be all right even if she can’t imagine him just watching, staying safely home until all this insanity subsides. If he is out on the streets, if they find him…

The Qunari waste nothing, and Fenris would surely be a prize worthy of capture - and Hawke murders that idea, leaves it cold and dead for much, much later. Either he is safe and fighting or he is captive and she will find him and free him or they have killed him already… and there won’t be a Qunari left in Kirkwall, there won’t be anyone to go home and explain just why they failed.

It’s not a good thought, or a rational one, but Hawke hasn’t been having a lot of either lately.

——————————————-

The first squad are on them before Hawke’s boots clear the last stair into Lowtown, and she wonders if they were ordered here on purpose. The Arishok had sure seemed intent on making sure they never escaped the compound - Hawke’s fairly certain she ought to take it as a compliment. The Qunari never fail to impress, never a movement out of place or a single hesitation, disinterested in either mercy or bloodlust.

Aveline does not share their dispassion, her eyes bright with fury. The guard-captain, who has just watched a half-dozen of her own be slaughtered around them, good men and women all. None of the right people have been dying for a long time now, and even when they do they never go alone. 

At least Saemus hadn’t lived to see this. Or maybe he could have stopped it from happening. But he’s gone and here it is, with Aveline throwing herself at the leader of the regiment - they’ve got a title, the leaders, it might even start with an ‘s’- and even the Tal-Vashoth still fight in the same structured regiments, given up on the Qun but unable to completely turn away from that knowledge, deeper than words. It ought to make it easier, that they all fight the same, but when ‘same’ means ‘perfect’ there’s no room to pause or think or breathe, just the swift strike and dodge and strike again, the dance that keeps Hawke one step ahead of the edge of their blades.

It’s rather like it was in Ferelden, escaping the Darkspawn, but Hawke’s had years now to learn how Aveline moves and so she’s right there, guarding the woman’s back as she plows through the Qunari, her shield giving two blows for each one it takes but Hawke sees more Qunari coming, another group drawn to the sound of battle. Just like Ferelden, then, but the skies are woefully clear of dragons. 

Hawke’s about to call for the retreat and hope Aveline isn’t too far gone to listen when the first arrows whistle past - three swift bolts and one with a familiar fletching, even as it goes by in a blur. Two of the charging Qunari go down as Aveline guts the leader she’s been fighting, and by the time Hawke’s glances over Varric’s reloaded and Sebastian is lining up his next shot. 

It doesn’t take long after that, and she’s catching her breath, Aveline rolling her shield arm, roughly wiping the blood from her blade.

“Is anyone else glad they got up today?” Varric remarks to no one in particular, yanking a bolt from the eye of the last Qunari to fall, wiping it absently over a bit of his coat already spattered with gore. “Just me, then?”

A short exchange of information, nothing new beyond the obvious. The ‘plan’ is simple enough- get to the Keep, cut down whatever gets in their way. Kirkwall is oddly beautiful under siege, as if this is how the city had been intended all along. Burnished and glowing with the sounds of panic and war echoing from every corner. Hawke wonders if this was what it sounded like before, with slaves coming through from all ports. As if all the misery in all the world were tied up and bound here, all that pain sunk right into the stones. 

Hawke tries not to think about it, as they dart around shattered crates and upended tables, an unlucky merchant’s wares dashed to colorful pieces in the street. A few frightened faces peek out here and there from alleyways, or doors that close fast as they approach. All the building-up of so many quiet lives, the making do and hoping for the best and living for the future, just to watch it fall apart all over again, the powerful and indifferent striding forth to crush everything in their path.

They’re moving in the middle ground between speed and caution, and Hawke rounds the next corner only to skid to a halt, hearing Aveline curse behind her at the sight of the blazing gates, blocking what should have been the swiftest way to the Keep. If Anders were here…

Maker, please keep him alive. Anders will fight, of course he will, and he’s a mage - one of their _bas saarabas_ \- and oh, Merrill, Merrill’s far more than even the average ‘dangerous thing’. They’ve already seen elves from the Alienage taking up arms against the Kirkwall guard, and Merrill isn’t one for low profiles even when she’s trying - _especially_ when she’s trying. 

Hawke’s not done losing, she just can’t be, not on a day like this. Not with Kirkwall in flames, and nothing around her but tinder.

“Pillage first and _then_ burn,” she murmurs, watching the fire lick its way skyward, “and they call themselves professionals?”

Aveline gives her The Look, a familiar weapon in her arsenal for a long time now, no matter how many battles they fight together. No matter how Hawke’s made it clear she can juggle more than one feeling just fine, that when the world starts tilting downhill that’s _exactly_ the time to stop taking it seriously. When her speed means nothing and her skill means even less and very little seems funny anymore. 

Oh, of course - there’s Donnic for the list. Hawke’s forgotten about him until just this moment, though there’s a good chance Aveline’s doing all she can not to remember. It’s been hardly any time at all they’ve had together - and will she have to bury another love, truly? What will be lost, and who, and when?

“Hawke!” Sebastian calls from a bit up the street, just about to step into the narrow alley between two buildings. “I think I’ve found a way through!”

If it were Isabela here with her, they’d be taking a shortcut across the rooftops, and avoiding all of this entirely - but the pirate’s long vanished. Gone away forever, sailing off on some stolen ship even now. Hawke knows she’s supposed to be angry - Aveline was practically incandescent with rage - but all she can think of is Izzy standing tall and proud at the wheel, the wind tangling in her beautiful hair and Hawke doesn’t want to hate her, she just doesn’t. Isabela didn’t want to die is all, and that’s fair. At least there’s one person who’s free and clear of all this, that Hawke won’t have to worry about. A selfish, stupid sort of thought, but there’s no one who will ever know.

_You could have told me, ‘bela. All this time. What did you think I would do? If I’d known, I could have… I would have…_

Or maybe not, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. It’s been a long, ugly year, and the Qunari have suffered losses no less than the rest of them. Stupid deaths without meaning or purpose, though they’d met it all with the same unshakable will. It seemed difficult to lower an opinion that had crashed ashore already digging bedrock, but Maker if Kirkwall hadn’t gone full out in the attempt. The Tome had simply been one slight too many, and so there was nothing left to do but follow Aveline down, breathing in the sour-scented air of the docks once again, with the Arishok knowing her far better than she’d have liked, and Hawke knowing him more than she’d ever thought she could. 

She’d felt it, stepping over the threshold, the jittery nervous knowledge that this was not the place to be, and Hawke had let the guard-captain do as much of the talking as possible. The air hung as tense as tripwires, and she wondered if Aveline thought like she did, if it reminded her of Ostegar.

Just look how well that had gone.

The elves - the Arishok’s new _viddithari_ \- told a tale Hawke had heard a dozen times before. Bastards taking ‘privileges,’ and of course they were telling the truth and of course Hawke would have gutted him too, if such a man had dared to even look at Bethany twice. The Arishok gazed at her with what would be self-satisfied certainty on any other face, though she could only see the slightest suggestion of it in his eyes. He knew what she would say well before she spoke, they both did. Send the elves for a trial? Take them back the way Saemus had gone back, for the same just and honorable treatment?

“I ask you, _basra_. What would you do?”

Aveline already regretted bringing her along, just like the Arishok already knew her answer. He did. He just wanted to hear her say it. 

So she had. 

And Kirkwall burned.

“We’ve got incoming!” Varric yells, and Hawke is already moving, instinct recognizing the flash before she can put a name to it - the _bas saarabas_ in action, the Qunari bringing their mages into battle now - and that’s when she knows she’s going to lose. It is as good as a promise, the crackle of magic in the air, just how serious the Qunari are about their victory, and even if Hawke is standing at the end of it, even if she wins this day, the price will be more than she can bear.


	3. Sebastian

Sebastian’s running out of arrows, and they haven’t even cleared Lowtown. 

He’s been recovering them as they go, but a few are lodged too deep, or snapped off mid-shaft, and Hawke isn’t giving him much time to even retrieve what he can. At first he wasn’t sure if it was her or Aveline setting the pace, but the guard captain is beside him now, catching her breath while Hawke’s still moving, gone around the corner before he can even try to call her back.

It’s the way it always is - she goes out ahead, quiet and fast enough to scout things out, so that the rest of them might avoid unnecessary risks. The shadows love her, and here in the deep of night Hawke’s all but invisible, diving in and out of the darkness to pick off their foes. Protecting them like she always does, but there’s an emptiness in her eyes now, a vast, cold distance like he’s never seen before. Sebastian had sworn Hawke hadn’t even seen him when he’d arrived, looking right through where he stood, her gaze fixed on the battle to come. He wasn’t a threat and wasn’t in danger and so not even worth a moment of her time.

He's afraid for her, not certain if she’s off her game or too far on it, too sharp and eager for this fight. She’d lost so much in so short a time and one night of his fumbling attempts at ministration wasn’t ever going to be enough in the way of reparations. Sebastian had meant to go back, wishing to give her some time and space. Yes, he’d half-hoped she might ask him to return - but here they are again, right in the middle of it with no chance to breathe and fate coming down on Hawke like a hammer to the anvil. 

He wants to tell himself it’s the Maker’s hand, that He forges all into the shape they’re fit for - but even the strongest blade will snap if it’s worked too hard for long. 

Sebastian spits the first swig of water, to get the taste of ashes out of his mouth, before swallowing the second down, and tries very, very hard not to wonder if this is how it was for his family, there at the end. If it had been fire and screaming in the middle of the night. He tries not to think about where they might have died, if they’d all been asleep or if his father had been up and pacing, one of his frequent restless nights. Did they take him in his study, while Mother lay unknowing in the other room, or had she died first? Did any of his brothers fall with a weapon in their hands, his nieces and nephews trying to run or desperate to hide?

He grimaces, trying to push the thoughts aside, but there is nothing to replace the grim speculation now. Not when he can hear cries of panic and pain all around him from the dark, and Hawke nowhere to be seen.

Maker, she wouldn’t go on alone, would she?

The Chantry Hall had been full to bursting when Meredith arrived, and she had been swift to act in barring the gates. A necessary measure to defend the Grand Cleric, but it had left those still outside wholly unprotected, panicked and begging for help, crushing each other in their mad frenzy to find shelter and safety. 

Sebastian had not known if he should stay or go. Well aware his bow would be put to no better use than defending Elthina, defending his brethren - he had sworn on his life to do so - but there were so many Templars ready to fight. Meredith had sent them all to the Chantry first, and Hawke was out there in Kirkwall, and for all he knew she might be alone. 

Whatever danger there was, Sebastian was sure she would rush straight to it or it would find her. It likely had already, and how could he stay, knowing that? How could he ignore the truth of it, that she was out there in the very worst while he stood here so well defended. If anything were to happen to Hawke, that he might have been there to stop -

What sort of sin was it, that what looked like chivalry or sacrifice was nothing more than the basest form of self-preservation? The thought of her name on the memorial wall - he would never be the same.

Sebastian stood at the door to the hall, surveying the turmoil and madness, every Chantry brother and sister attempting to calm down the frightened masses, the sounds of weeping children and disembodied voices echoing back and forth between the walls. Husbands and wives calling out for those lost in the panicked flight, and beneath and around it all the sound of prayer. Countless men and women kneeling prostrate before the statue of Andraste, pleading for her mercy, for her salvation. 

In the very center of the chaos, Elthina had appeared, stepping fearlessly out into the crowd. Strong and serene, moving among the faithful with unwavering steadiness, reassuring them with soft words and gestures and her simple presence alone. Reaching back to all those that reached out, to touch her hands or the edges of her robes. 

The Templars were barring the last of the doors, with the cries of the desperate rising up beyond, the wild horror of those abandoned to their fate. Sebastian turned to look, and when he looked back Elthina was staring right at him, over the crowd, and he realized she’d caught him once more at the threshold. Unsure of what he ought to do, drawn at cross-purposes by promises he’d intended to make and those his heart had made without him.

The Grand Cleric had no such hesitation, as always knowing his path better than he did himself, her single, silent word perfectly clear across the chaos - _go_.

He’d slipped through the last door just before the Templars could slam it closed, and now here he is, certain it was the right decision and wondering if even it will be enough. Staring into the darkness, listening to the roar and echo of some far-distant battle, every breath full of ash and suffering.

“You heard about Isabela?” Aveline says in lieu of thanks, as he passes her what’s left of the water. 

“It’s true, then? She’s gone?”

The guard captain nods, her expression made of the same unyielding steel as her armor, and Sebastian wonders what she’s trying not to think about. Disappointment at Isabela, for cutting and running? Disappointment at herself, for trusting the pirate in the first place? He looks up the road, no sign of Hawke but there won’t be, not until she’s right at his side or even whispering in his ear, laughing when he turns to look - but that won’t happen anymore. Maybe not for a very long time to come.

Sebastian didn’t trust Isabela, and the pirate had gleefully returned fire on his skepticism, but Hawke had cared for her, he knew that much. The way she cared for everyone - with all she had to give, and if it hadn’t been true love between them it had surely been affection and good faith, at least from Hawke’s side. Maybe she had thought it would make the difference, that Isabela would return her devotion when it mattered most - and to learn otherwise… 

He knew what Hawke would have said, that the fear of betrayal was never worth loving a little less - but even with that, she’s here now and fighting and there’s just no way she’s doing it with an unbroken heart.

“So what happened down there?” Varric says, his crossbow half-raised as they start to move forward, carefully, in the direction Hawke has gone. “Apart from the ambush, I mean.”

“Ambush?” Sebastian says, and Aveline nods, even her usual all-consuming calm not able to hide her anger, so much madness on the streets she’s fought for years now to protect. They’ve only seen a few in armor felled here, but all of them have been her guard. A tactical decision by the Templars to fight for the high ground, but it must sting to know it was done without regret or even a second thought. Meredith seeing Lowtown and everyone in it as nothing but a stopgap between the Qunari and what was actually worth protecting.

“Just before they attacked… Hawke told the Arishok he was in his rights to keep the elves, to let them stay. She left me on my own in there.”

“I’m sure she-” Sebastian starts, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“No, she knew exactly what she was doing. Once the fighting started she had my back, but…” Aveline grimaces, shifting her grip on her shield.

“Hawke’s not all right,” Sebastian says, even though he knows Varric’s not going to like it. The dwarf does not disappoint, glaring as if he might accidentally let his finger slip on the trigger accidentally in the direction of Sebastian’s head. Even Aveline looks suspicious, despite what she’s just said. It’s still all but heresy to suggest Hawke might finally been given one more problem than she can manage. 

“I’m not trying to-” he says, “I’m _worried_ about her. After all that’s happened, you know that she’s not-”

He’s cut off by the sound of brawling in the street ahead of them, because whatever Hawke might or might not be isn’t really Kirkwall’s concern, and that’s what frightens him the most. Hawke’s not reckless, it just looks that way most of the time. If she’s not focused, though, if she’s not thinking clearly then there’s not even that slim margin he knows she relies on. The narrow space of victory, between their blades and her body, life and death with nothing in between. 

The sort of thing he ought to pay a bit more attention to, instead of rushing carelessly into the fray. Sebastian’s in the middle of the fight before he realizes what even he’s stepped into, and nearly gets a knife in his side for his reward.

One of the Maker’s little jokes, running into a band of looters at nearly the same time as the Qunari do, the streets already a dimly-lit slaughterhouse. Aveline is quick to bludgeon the looter who’d taken a swing at him and Varric launches a round at the Qunari who’s coming at her. It doesn’t stop the warrior, but slows him down enough for two looters to take advantage, hacking and stabbing with all their might. A third brigand turns to help them, and then his head goes one way and his body the other, the Qunari who felled him roaring as he charges, trying to reach his fallen comrade, and Aveline just beyond. 

Sebastian has him before he’s taken three steps, an arrow through the eye, and his next shot is for the looter who’s rounded on Varric. The man goes down without a sound but reinforcements are melting out of the shadows before he hits the ground, and when Sebastian reaches back for the next arrow his hand snatches up only empty air.

Give him a blade and Sebastian can at least keep himself alive in a fight, but that’s when the odds are even and there are three - no, four brigands coming out of the shadows toward him like a pack of well-armed wolves. Varric and Aveline are still fighting the last of the Qunari, but even in defeat they give no quarter and so he’s all alone. Sebastian’s fast enough to slash the arm of the first, hearing the man’s knife clatter on the stones as he curses in pain. The headbutt he follows with not exactly Chantry approved, but it’s served him well enough in the past. 

He hears a blade skitter across his armor, very nearly finding a home in his back. Sebastian brings his elbow around hard, hears the crunch of what is probably a jaw, if the garbled screaming is anything to go by, but he’s left himself open and there’s a flash of steel coming much too close, too fast. He throws himself backward, stumbles over something or someone and goes down hard, feeling the hot, wet splash tricking down his throat. A scratch, he knows it’s only a scratch because he’s still breathing. The Maker’s blessing on him yet again, though there’s still the matter of the two men closing on him, and they’ll have him well before he can stand.

He’s grown used to the voices of the others during a brawl, calling out in anger or determination or dibs on a particular set of boots. He’s also grown familiar with a certain kind of silence, the one that means Hawke is there, guarding his back. Sebastian shouldn’t be surprised, then, when she slips out of the dark, but even in that first moment of recognition what he feels is not relief.

One blade draws in a shining arc, the two men don’t see it at first and that half-second of inattention is more than enough to damn them. He’s seen Hawke fight, watched her practice time and again and he still can’t follow it when she’s at full speed. Sebastian watches the first go down and she’s got her blades in the second before he ever sees the strike, his eyes tracking for the next move that doesn’t come because it’s already over. By the time Sebastian’s thought to draw a breath she’s dropped the man he first wounded, and her knife cuts through the air, killing the last man well before he can turn to flee.

It’s wrong. It looks so _wrong_ this time - a brutal, calm efficiency, an absolute lack of interest that he’s seen only once before - in the Chantry hall, with Petrice. So little of the Hawke he knows there, only anger. A blank and pitiless fury, with the fires of Kirkwall glinting off her hair and in her eyes - he’s losing her to this, to all of it, and Maker help him he doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

“Sebastian.” Her voice strangles his name into a furious curse, as she reaches out a hand. He’s barely on his feet again before Hawke grabs him by the edge of his armor, her arm across his chest and shoving him hard, pinning him to the wall. 

“Hawke, what-”

He remembers he’s injured only when her other hand touches his throat, the thin slice where the brigand had tried to take a piece out of him. It doesn’t hurt much, he thinks the bleeding’s stopped - and Hawke is shaking. What he’d thought was anger had been much more - desperation, fear for him, seeing him go down and she hadn’t known… 

He can feel her tremble where she has him pinned, but now Sebastian’s not so sure that she’s the one holding him up, that it isn’t the other way around.

“I’m fine. He didn’t - I’m fine.”

She lets go of him then, stepping back quickly, but Sebastian follows just as fast. He’ll be damned if he lets this continue, Hawke’s going to get herself killed if she keeps on like this - and Maker help him, that he’s not sure she even cares.

“Wait, Hawke-”

He reaches for her, but instead his hand closes around the bundle she’s shoved in between them - a quiver full of arrows. Taken off the body of one of their elven converts? Oh, and what must it cost her to fight them? Taking her blades to elves who only wished for a better life, throwing their lot in with those who might provide one. 

Varric and Aveline have defeated the last of the Qunari, but Sebastian can already hear the next battle coming from around the corner. Nothing he can do but send a desperate prayer skyward - for the city, for Hawke, _Maker please_ \- nock his arrow and draw back the string.

————————————-

“Just how big was that damned boat of theirs anyway?” Varric grumbles, leaning Bianca against one leg as he ties his hair back into place. One more division of Qunari down, but the gates ahead are burning bright, blocking the shortest path to what’s already taken them far too long to reach. Even Hawke is starting to slow, hands on her knees for a moment, panting for breath.

“You go left, we go right?” She finally says, gesturing toward the road that bends back away from the gate, splitting off into two paths that could prove equally useless, or dangerous, or both. Aveline nods, with a look in her eye that says she’s moments away from clearing a path through the nearest wall, and Maker forgive him but Sebastian almost wishes Anders were here, surely a spell now that might serve some good. He wonders how the mage is faring, wherever he might be, or if he is still even alive. The thought of Anders silent and trussed in Qunari bindings flits through his thoughts. They are hardly friends and barely allies, but there are some horrors that no one should have to endure. 

Aveline is off in the next moment, with Varric behind her - one to draw fire while the other stands at range, which leaves him and Hawke to do much the same, moving down the other path. Sebastian can see nothing but open doors in this part of the city, the great houses silent and empty. The lack of bodies ought to be a relief but there’s a growing dread inside of him - where have they gone, and why? He reminds himself that Elthina’s safe, that Meredith has Templars five deep around the Chantry by now. No one is going to let anything happen to the Grand Cleric.

If the Arishok wished to trade for her, though? If it was Elthina’s life, for the lives of countless innocents?

Oh Maker, let it not come to that.

As if to reassure him that things here aren’t entirely bloodless, they turn the corner onto another plaza, another set of homes, and into the aftermath of what might have been the first group of Templars to square off against the Qunari. A valiant effort, what looks like only four men in armor against nearly a dozen of the Qunari forces, ultimately victorious though it wasn’t enough to save them. The dead from both sides are scattered everywhere, some lying on top of each other, blood channeling in between the stones, weapons all around. Hawke moves slowly, the both of them with their guard up, keeping an eye out for any possible survivors. 

“Hello, Sebastian.”

A calm, quiet voice, though he’s still got his bow half-drawn at the sound, and it provokes a small laugh from the shadows. A house near the far end of the square has its door open like the rest, but sitting near the entrance is a figure on the ground. Sebastian recognizes the noble, but can’t quite put a name to the face. The man sees his confusion, and smiles.

“Don’t remember me? It’s all right. The Chantry and I don’t tend to see more of each other than we have to. Familiarity breeding contempt, and all that.”

“What are you doing-” Sebastian stops, when Hawke goes still beside him. It takes him a half-second more to figure out why, that the man isn’t alone in the darkness. An elven girl is slumped against him, her head on his chest and his hand in her hair. It looks like she’s sleeping, except for the blood. All down his fancy shirt, his pants and boots and on the hand still softly stroking her dark curls, as if to soothe away the nightmare stretched out around them.

“She always had the worst luck, my Maire did. Even for an elf. Oh, my pretty girl.”

Sebastian can hear it now, the darkness, the hollow grief behind the too-lazy words. He might not remember the man’s name but he’s seen him at the Chantry, with his family - this isn’t his wife, or anywhere near his home. His thoughts must show on his face, and the man laughs again. 

“My bit on the side - that’s how they say it, right? I couldn’t keep her in my house, of course. It would be too obvious. Better if she was employed elsewhere, if I came to her. And she agreed. She loved me. Silly girl, she loved me.”

The Qunari must have come through and met the Templars here, and the servant girl had been fleeing or hiding, only to be caught in between. One of those things that happened in a battle, in a war. The only part of this that’s at all strange is that her noble lover snuck away to find her, that he’s stricken enough to stay here and mourn.

Sebastian looks back, at the sound of shouting in the far distance. It’s too far away to threaten them yet, but this quiet space might not stay that way for long.

“Hawke, we should-”

“Hawke?” The man stares up at her, studying her closely. “Oh, you’re the Ferelden. The one with the mother. I know you. I heard them say your name, the ox-men. You shouldn’t go up there.”

“No?” Hawke says, and that word comes in a voice Sebastian’s never heard from her before, dry and dead and gone. Shoulders slumped with weariness or worse, and she tips her head back to the sky for a moment before looking down again at the lifeless woman cradled in the man’s arms. It doesn’t matter that none of it is Hawke’s fault, it doesn’t matter at all. “What would you have me do instead?”

“Let them hang,” The noble says simply, damning everyone he knows with a grin. “Walk away and let them hang. It’s not your fight.” He traces the curve of dead girl’s cheek with his thumb, so gentle. “Let us face the consequences for once. Trust me - we have it coming.”

Hawke doesn’t say a word. Sebastian wonders if Aveline and Varric are thinking about what he’s said, if they’ve thought of what he’s just realized - it’s true, none of this is her problem to solve. Her mother’s dead, her sister’s imprisoned, it was a Chantry Mother who murdered Saemus and even Isabela’s never to be seen again. What does she owe Kirkwall, really, for all that it’s done to her?

“No one will be grateful, I can promise you,” the man says, his voice barbed and empty, “it’s not in our nature.” 

“… do the thing you don’t want to do.” Hawke says, very softly.

“Hm?”

“A long time ago, someone told me: If you don’t know the right thing, do the hard thing. Do what you don’t want to do, and that’s probably for the best.”

The wisdom of Malcolm Hawke, Sebastian’s sure of it. He wonders how her father knew where his daughter would end up, to teach her as well as he did. If he knew how much Hawke would lean on his words in times like these, but apostate or no Sebastian feels nothing but gratitude for him now. Gratitude and fear - Maker help him, the closer they get to the Keep the less he wants Hawke anywhere near it.

“Sounds like a bit of a berk,” the man says, and it’s her turn to laugh in that odd, weary way. 

“I don’t think he’d argue with you.”

Sebastian turns at the sound of voices echoing from up the street, but it’s only Aveline and Varric, whatever path they thought to try no more useful than the others. It’s not exactly a surprise that all of Kirkwall’s defenses seem fully set against its defenders. It was a city built by the Imperium, after all, the Tevinters skilled in the art of being their own worst enemies.

The man lifts his free hand toward the open door. “Did they block you off or something? You can go through the house here, to the back. In the garden there’s a door, and a little path up through an alley. It’ll get you where you need to be.”

An alley. Narrow enough that there will be no way to defend themselves if they’re caught. Still, what choice do they have?

“It’s not safe here.” Sebastian says.

“Oh Maker, I hope not.” The man says, with a battered carcass of a laugh. “No, I’ll be fine. I always am. Out without a scratch and all forgotten by the spring.” He speaks as if surviving is like looking into the Void. The man turns his head, brushes a kiss against the dead girl’s brow, still holding her tight. “She deserved someone special, you know? And she ended up with me. My Maire, always the worst luck, always.” 

Sebastian ought to say something more, to convince the man to take shelter, but the sight of him cradling the woman in his arms seems like only a portent, the promise of more grief to come, and the words fail him. Hawke is already through the door, as Aveline and Varric finally arrive. It’s only as he steps through that that Sebastian notices the considerable amount of blood on the threshold, a long trail of it down the hall. He is still not expecting a shaky croak from the far side of the room, the word thickly accented but perfectly clear.

“… Hawke.”

Sebastian has the arrow drawn, though there’s no clear shot with Hawke in front of him, and there doesn’t seem much left of the Qunari to pose a threat. The warrior is sprawled against a sideboard, shards of glass and broken dishes strewn around him, a bizarrely colorful display for a dying man. He can barely lift his great, horned head, an arm pressed tight, low across his torso. Holding himself together with the last of his strength. He’s staring at Hawke. The rest of them might as well not exist.

“… _bas_ … _basalit-an_.”

Sebastian hisses a warning, but Hawke pays him no mind, crouching down mere inches away from the fallen Qunari. A thousand horrors run through his mind - the Qunari’s palmed a bit of glass, or he has some other weapon, holding out for one last, glorious strike - but he does not move, staring at Hawke as she looks back, each a quiet, solemn mirror of the other. 

He says something in that foreign tongue, halting and strained, every word an effort. Sebastian is startled when Hawke answers, a slow sentence that sounds awkward, stilted even to his untrained ear. The Qunari’s eyes widen slightly, and he lets out the softest huff of what almost sounds like laughter. A moment later, his head sinks down and he is dead. 

Hawke looks at the body for a moment more, before rising up and moving toward the back door.

“We need to go.”

“What did you say to him?”

Hawke smiles. A familiar sight through so many bad times. She’s grinned at him in far worse moments than this, to let him know they’ll get out of it somehow. A promise, that it might all seem impossible now, but soon they’ll all be recounting this night for free pints at the Hanged Man, surrounded by friends, bad food and good cheer.

This is not that smile.

“I told him I don’t speak _Qunlat_. It’s the only thing Fenris could get me to learn. I don’t know what he said.”

“Hawke-”

“Do you remember what I told you, Sebastian? The night that Saemus died?”

Of course he remembers. It feels like they could have stepped right out of that night and into this one. The same weariness in her eyes, the same dread. Forever. That’s what she told him, that this is what they’ll be doing forever. 

Sebastian knows the numbers, of course, the dates and names and battles fought between the Chantry and the Qunari. The great invasion, the attack on Starkhaven, the tenuous peace of the Llomerryn Accord. All those Exalted Marches, all those years of fighting and how many had died? How many hundreds of thousands had watched those they cherished most bleed out in the dark? Countless nights just like tonight, started by chance and ending in senseless slaughter with nothing at all truly gained along the way. 

“It won’t be like that, Hawke. We can stop this.”

“Stop it? But this _is_ how you stop it. This is what happens,” Hawke says, one hand stretched out toward the shattered room, the dead girl outside, a dying soldier’s last words to no one, “this is the only thing that ever happens.” 

Aveline believes him now, Sebastian can see it in the way she looks at Hawke when she’s turned to leave. Worried, the same as he is and has been and there’s still nothing he can do about it. They’re closer to the Keep than ever, with no gates left to bar the path and Hawke is just _gone_. Only a few feet in front of him but she’s out beyond the sea and past the stars, further away with every step she takes.

The alley is even narrower than he feared it would be, but they all get through it, fast and silent and no one fires on them as they make it through to the other side. Finally, the Keep is in sight, only a few more streets between them and it, with nothing left to slow them down.

He never sees the Qunari mage, none of them do. Just the flash of light, and by the time Sebastian even thinks to move his bow is ripped from his hands as he’s thrown hard across the stones.


	4. Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some game dialogue.

Knight-Commander Meredith hates her on sight.

So at least the night’s not a total wash.

The _saarebas_ ‘ blood is still dripping off the end of Meredith’s blade as Hawke gets herself up off the ground, checking to make sure everyone else is following suit. Aveline’s using her shield as a brace to push herself up, and Sebastian has to limp a few paces to get his bow back, but no one seems to have gained any new injuries, not even Bianca, though Varric’s fretting quietly as he dusts her off. 

The Knight-Commander’s expression hasn’t changed one bit. Or maybe it’s the only face she had time to bring with her on such short notice. Hawke can practically see the arguments piling up behind her eyes, fighting with each other for dominance. It’s all there in the set of her jaw - refugee hick troublemaking backwater apostate’s daughter _Ferelden_. Years of loathing Hawke on principle, and now here’s the satisfaction of finally being able to do it in person.

It’s the hardest damned thing not to grin back at her. Meredith really has _no idea_.

_Didn’t Cullen tell you? You’re peaking way too soon. Wait a little - I’m annoying in ways you don’t even have words for._

“I know you. The name Hawke has turned up in my reports many times. Too many.”

Hawke’s ears are still ringing from the _saarebas_ ’ blast, and she fights the urge to shake her head, wondering just what she’s supposed to say to that. How many times is too many? Who’s second best? Which report’s her favorite?

Meredith continues to stare as if she can hear what Hawke’s thinking anyway. If her expression’s changed at all, it’s now the look of someone who’s stepped in something unfortunate, and needs to scrape her boot clean. Maybe she’s allergic to Fereldens, like the Seneschal.

Aveline steps in then, because she’s the respectable one with manners and tact and appropriate responses to life-threatening situations. The one who frowns seriously and nods when Meredith says the Qunari are taking people to the Keep, and it’s time to stop them. Who doesn’t let it show that she knows what it means, if the Arishok’s in control. What that means for all the guards who were still there, and maybe even Donnic.

Hawke wonders if Aveline’s dealing with this the way she would. If she’s put him in the same place in her mind that Hawke had put her mother, right from the moment she’d seen those damned lilies. No one heard ‘blood mage’ and ‘missing’ in Kirkwall and expected a happy ending. Ten minutes time was too long to mount a rescue, and whoever’d taken her mother had hours on them, at least. 

She had known before she’d run out the door that it was already too late. Her mother was dead and gone and worse, well before they’d ever found DuPuis. She’s never told anyone that, how hunting down Quentin had been about vengeance, about making sure he never hurt anyone else and only then about getting back what she could, certain of how little it would be. 

Maybe that’s the look in Aveline’s eyes now, accepting the worst so that she can fight on. Breaking her heart in advance, so that it will heal back strong enough that she can bear it, when the blow finally falls for real. 

Hawke can almost feel the weight of the Knight Commander’s grim, disapproving glower as it falls on her once more. Does sucking on lemons help with all the demon fighting? It’s all meant to be intimidating, of course, but Hawke’s more interested in what’s going on behind that thick wall of armor and the even thicker wall of self-righteousness. 

_What did you know, Meredith? What did you know about Alrik, about Petrice, and when did you know it?_

“Head to the Keep, and I will see if I can find more of my men. These creatures will pay for this outrage.”

The Knight-Commander turns away, her blade soaked in so much blood there’s no sign of the steel, and that’s when the feeling hits Hawke, just like before. The ache behind her eyes and in her chest. An electric, timeless jolt from head to heel, telling her that she needs to take a good look around and get used to the sight of Kirkwall on fire. That she needs to keep an eye on just how the Knight Commander wields her sword, to start looking for any weaknesses right the hell now because it’s going to be the two of them someday, just like this.

It doesn’t matter if Hawke wants it to happen or not - she didn’t want to fight the Qunari, but here they are. It doesn’t matter that this night’s not over, and who knows what will even be left standing at the end of it. Kirkwall always has its own plans, so it doesn’t mean a thing that Hawke shouldn’t be able to feel this dread, to be so sure of what’s coming.

But she is, and clashing with the Templar doesn’t just mean going to war with the Knight-Commander, does it? It means going to war with half the damn world and the Maker too. Meredith wouldn’t stand for anything less, it’ll be an Exalted March with all the trimmings and that’s if Hawke _wins_ and oh Maker, no. _No._

“Hawke?” Sebastian’s at her side. She thinks he wants to put a hand on her shoulder, to reach out for her arm but he’s not sure she won’t try to to take his head off for daring. She’s scaring him, Hawke’s been vaguely aware of that for a while now, but there’s not a single thing she can do or say to change it.

People die, more people die. Somebody makes a speech. Varric’s the one to ask, for sturdy quotes about faith and eloquent poetry and the meaning of it all. He’ll make sense of this, he’s really quite good at it.

Hawke swallows, but her throat is parched, her voice husky from too much smoke. “We have to get to the Keep.”

\-----------------------------

At least it’s a goal, and the getting there keeps her occupied, keeps her from thinking too long about the empty doorways they’re passing, the eerie silence of all Hightown. They pass a fallen Sten, with a half-dozen of the city guard around him, and Hawke’s sure Aveline’s looking because she’s looking too. Trying to tell herself that one’s too broad-shouldered to be Donnic, and the others are much too short. Pretending she can judge the height of someone sprawled out on the ground and nearly cut in two.

The funny thing is how it never really works, trying to brace for the worst. Hawke had told herself her mother was gone, that it was over and done with and she couldn’t afford to be distracted when they finally hunted the bastard down. It was still a horror past anything she could have imagined. The body in her arms with her mother’s face, heavy with the smell of a half-dozen corpses slowly falling apart. The tiny, perfect rows of stitches along her neck - and there had been care in that. A horrifying attention to detail that had her swallowing back bile, the memory always fresh whether she wants it or not.

So Hawke really ought to know better, than to think she’s ready for what’s coming. Thinking that it’s enough to know she can lose them, Varric or Merrill, Aveline or Fen- or anyone, and that it’s still coming. It hasn’t happened yet because that swing’s still winding up, waiting for just the the right moment to let loose because she’s become Kirkwall’s favorite chew toy, and the city always finds a way to get what it wants. 

She ought to notice what’s wrong immediately, when they hit the courtyard just below the Keep but they’re under heavy attack in the space between breaths and there’s no time to pay attention to more than surviving. Hawke’s too busy looking for the _saarebas_ because damn, they’re nasty off the leash - _how do they even teach their mages?_ \- but there are more bodies here. More of the dead, and there’s an important detail she’s not quite noticing. A realization that flits just beyond what she can focus on while dodging spears and trying to guard Aveline’s blind side. 

Hawke dances back from the slash of a blade and the Qunari follows her, pressing his advantage, though it takes him from behind a pillar and right into Varric’s line of sight, and the warrior’s a pincushion before he even realizes what’s happened. The battle’s raging and Hawke’s fighting hard as ever, but her eye keeps catching on the bodies, on the robes and the lack of armor and the _robes_. The thought is right there, but she’s too stupid to figure it out, distracted or just not wanting to know. 

The Qunari are cut down one by one, and Hawke takes the last one out with a strike from behind, two blades deep in his side while he’s busy aiming a throw at Sebastian. It’s cheap, back-alley fighting and it feels… it feels dishonorable to do this, even if they attacked first, even if it’s kill-or-die - is there ever going to be a third option again? All of this is just stupid and wrong, and even when they’re all dead the foreboding feeling is howling at her louder than ever, until she’s afraid to find out what it is she should already know.

A soft groan comes from the far side of the plaza. Hawke’s moving cautiously but she’s still there first, giving the man a hand up. He has long, slender fingers and soft hands - Circle mage, the hands always give them away. Anders will gripe about the state of his own if given half a chance, though Hawke doubts anyone else will call him on it. It's not like there's many dockworkers or farmhands who pay much attention to the condition of their cuticles. If they know what cuticles are.

_Don’t you be dead, Anders. Don’t you dare._

“Many thanks, my friend…”

The Circle mage is an elf, with elegant robes and graying hair, but it’s the staff he reaches for that makes it all click together. Dark wood and the long, twisting necks of dragons - this is First Enchanter Orsino, with the Staff of… Something Important and Historical. Her sister told her the name once.

_… Bethany._

Oh, Maker. Oh Maker, no.

“It looks like you fared better than the others,” Aveline says grimly, her voice coming from a thousand miles away as the thought finally comes down on Hawke with crushing force. It seemed impossible, which was why she’d never even considered… not with the Knight-Commander so obsessively diligent, so absolutely devoted to keeping as much distance as possible between the mages and the rest of Kirkwall.

At least, Hawke had thought, it meant they would be safe. The bodies around her tell a much different story.

“The others? Surely, they cannot all be…” Orsino looks around in muted horror, and Hawke’s looking too because this, _this_ is it. It hurts too much not to be. Kirkwall sinking the knife right into her heart as she finds the body lying not so very far away. Dark hair. Not moving. The staff beside her that Hawke knows as well as any weapon she’s ever carried. 

Father had taught her how to hold it once, and how to fight with it if she had to. The gentle art of pretending to be a mage until the Templars got in close, and then whacking them until they rang like Chantry bells. All of it, everything he’d ever told her, for one reason and one purpose - to protect Bethany, who still isn’t moving.

The whimper comes all on its own, the tiniest noise in the back of her throat, and no one could have heard it because Hawke can’t quite breathe anymore. Varric’s hand is still around her wrist somehow, clenching hard enough to hurt even though the pain feels vague and distant. Her eyes are fixed on the staff, laying between her and Bethany like an accusation. 

Protect the family, the last promise she’d made to Father, the only thing he’d ever really asked of her and look what she’s done with that - look what she’s _allowed_ to happen to Carver and Mother and now… Hawke feels her heart split, right down to the jagged center. All that’s left is for indifferent hands to pry her apart and carry off the pieces and be done with it.

Orsino kneels quickly at her sister’s side, fretting softly through a gentle haze of magic, trying to help, to heal. It won’t be enough, Hawke already knows that, it’s too late, it’s too -

Bethany stirs, opening her eyes and Hawke can do things like think and be a person again, and not go completely mad. The executioner’s stroke pardoned at the last possible moment, her luck holding for one more round. It’s all she can do just to breathe in and keep standing.

“What were you thinking, child? I told you to let them take me.”

Oh, Hawke likes him already. Bethany had said the First Enchanter was a good man, and it’s easy enough to see it. Nobody could look as worried as he does if they didn’t care a whole damn lot about more than they had any hope of fixing.

“We had to do something! We couldn’t just-“

It’s nice, that half-second of hearing Bethany’s voice, of knowing she’s all right, even though she looks pale and tired, more than just from casting spells. Over a month now, since Hawke has seen her sister, with no letters and no word. Nothing, until just this moment when Bethany glances up and sees her there. Hawke feels the tiniest kick of hope, that maybe - but then the wall comes down, her sister’s expression going carefully blank, and that hope dies faster than it was born. Bethany, who had always looked to her in every dark time, who trusted her to get them through it. If Hawke had to name the look in her eyes now it would be nothing less than contempt.

All relief vanishes, and the world reels around her dizzily. Hawke struggles for anything to break the suddenly brutal silence, to pretend she can’t see the vast chasm that has opened up at her feet.

“It’s a Hawke family reunion.”

“What’s left of us,” Bethany says bitterly, pointedly ignoring her sister’s hand as she gets to her feet.

The Knight Commander’s there in the next moment, Templars spreading out in the courtyard behind her. Immediately, she and the First Enchanter start bickering because everyone knows this is what they do and why let a foreign insurrection get in the way of a perfectly good spat? Bethany’s gone to check on the other mages in the courtyard, to see if there’s anyone else she can save. Hawke watches the soft flicker of her healing magic in the dark - why is Bethany even here? Why are _any_ of the mages here? Did Meredith pull every Templar from the Gallows and just hope the Qunari didn’t like rowboats?

“Where are you going?”

The Knight-Commander’s voice has her pausing mid-step - Hawke didn’t even realize she was walking away, leaving them to do whatever it was they were doing while she pushed on. Obviously there’s still only the one way to to end this, and the one place left to go.

“I thought we needed to get to the Keep. Feel free to tag along.”

Meredith looks shocked, and offended at being shocked, and angry at… hell, Meredith looks like Meredith. Five minutes face-to-face and Hawke’s pretty sure she’ll never merit anything better than ‘suspiciously unimpressed.’

“Do you think you’re in charge now? You’re not even from this city!” 

“Neither am I,” Orsino says, “ but I don’t hear you complaining about either of us fighting to defend our home.”

The Knight Commander’s eyes narrow, just slightly, and if Hawke weren’t already well established in the space she’s reserved for evil subversive mage sympathizers of evil, she’s definitely there now. 

“Very well, then, but whatever your plan is, be quick about it.”

Hawke’s intuition might have been a little optimistic, that she’d have some long span of time to dread crossing swords with the Knight-Commander. How hard might it be, to convince Meredith to queue up behind the Arishok and save them all the effort of doing this again?  
Or maybe Aveline can grab the Knight-Commander by the other leg, and they can use her to break down the doors of the Keep.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Bethany’s blithely savage tone cuts deeper than anything Hawke’s been hit with so far, and it bleeds her deep and quiet. Her sister’s revived a few of the other mages, and they’re busy tending to those they can save. Hawke can see some of the Templars standing guard at the edges of the courtyard, now that the worst of the danger’s passed. Mages who fought for Kirkwall once more having the city protected against them - a holy defense of the status quo. Maker be praised.

But that’s not why her sister’s angry. The Templars didn’t fail her. Hawke did.

“Bethy?”

It’s cold, this far up in Hightown, well past the natural windbreaks of the cliff walls. The night wind’s coming in hard off the water, bitter and sharp. Usually Hawke likes the dark, she can get more done there, but right now it makes this all feel too personal, as if half the world’s been crammed into her foyer, watching her and Bethany fight it out. Hawke can’t argue, though, she can only supplicate, and time stretches out around them, bending back on itself to the beginning. A cozy little house in the middle of nowhere, with no Qunari, no First Enchanters or Knight-Commanders or the cold, lonesome heights of Kirkwall. Only her sister, and the vow Hawke made before she even knew there were vows to make. 

“Bethy, _please_ ,” she whispers, desperate. It’s a bad move, showing this kind of weakness with an audience but Hawke can’t help it.

Please, just give her something. Anything she can carry into this fight. 

Hawke watches her sister’s profile, those familiar eyes now cold and distant, refusing to look at her. It’s still Bethany, still so gentle and kind - just not for her, and not ever again. She will never be forgiven for what happened to their mother, Hawke can see it in every stiff, unyielding line in her sister’s pose. There’s nothing that will change this, no apology or atonement or passing of time that can ever bring back what’s been lost.

She’s out in the cold, in the dark, searching for home - and that little house has just turned out its light.

Hawke had an instructor once, the man who’d really taught her knives, and whole new levels of how to take a beating. He’d been Orlesian, arrogant and fancy to the core, but fast, the fastest she’s ever seen. He never told them exactly where he was from or what he’d done there, but no one knew how to fight like he did without making a lot of enemies, and taking care of even more.

Being unstoppable, he said, meant being a contradiction. A man who needed nothing, who had no one, free of any desire but the beauty of the fight - that man alone would be invincible. But a man with nothing and no one had nothing worth fighting for - it was endurance without victory, without hope, and not even the invincible could survive that for long.

Long enough, though. Long enough to get done what needs doing.

“You’ll be safe now, Bethy.” Hawke says, and somehow her voice is steady and calm, though there’s no reason to think they’ll ever speak again. “I’m going to make this right. I promise.”

\----------------------------------------

A whole squad of Qunari guard the entrance to the Keep. The Knight-Commander prefers a direct assault - there’s a surprise - and Hawke hears the next big checkmark by her name on the Templar shit list, or maybe just the quill snapping in half, when she agrees with Orsino’s suggestion of a distraction instead. 

“And just how will we do this?” Meredith says testily.

Orsino smiles. Hawke can’t see it in the shadows but she can hear it in his voice. “Have confidence, Knight Commander.”

He flips his staff into his hand in a gesture that’s both casual and cocksure, stepping calmly out of cover. For a moment the First Enchanter looks half his age, and Hawke is not at all surprised that what he means by ‘provide a distraction’ is ‘Bowling for Qunari with Fireballs’. 

Fenris thinks her biggest flaw - well, one of them - is that she’s always too ready to give mages the benefit of the doubt, to match them all up against the first and best mage she’d ever known. It’s true, though, that if Malcolm Hawke were here he’d be doing the exact same thing.

It would be really nice if Orsino didn’t have to die for it.

Hawke looks back only once as they sneak across the courtyard, to see that he’s still going strong, taking out two more warriors in a nice seven-ten split. Luring the rest of the guard to where the Templars lie in wait, but there’s no telling for sure who’s going to be standing by the end of that. A moment later, and they’re through the doors of the Keep and right into the next group of Qunari waiting on the other side. 

It isn’t satisfaction she feels, when the first broad throat gives way beneath her blade, the _saraabas_ behind him staggering back as Sebastian’s arrow finds some narrow gap of flesh. It isn’t anger or regret or even bloodlust. Hawke isn’t feeling much of anything at all anymore, but that’s better for this, that’ll work just fine.

Everyone she can keep alive is still alive, that’s the part that matters. As they get closer to the throne room they can hear the cries from inside, she can see Aveline tensing up. Varric’s on the watch for traps after a near miss on the stairs, but there won’t be any more of those, Hawke’s sure of that. The Arishok wants her here, to prove some point about Kirkwall when he already knows that she knows. All this attention, all this honor - _basalit-an_ \- because Hawke can kill people and not die, when that’s the easiest, least impressive thing she knows how to do.

_Do we really belong in your Qun, you or I? Do we really make a difference? We can’t heal what we hurt. We don’t grow crops, or entertain, or help build a better world. I fight you and you fight me, and woe to the poor bastards who get in our way. We’re the half-assed answer to a problem everyone wishes they didn’t have. We’ve never actually solved anything._

Aveline readies her shield as Hawke kicks the doors wide open, not at all surprised by any of what she sees. For all the work she’s done on the Viscount’s behalf, this is the first time she’s ever actually been in the room. A mob of panicked nobles shift and stumble anxiously, corralled by a Qunari honor guard. The body of at least one poor noble is sprawled out dead in front of them and - oh Maker, she knew it, she did - the Viscount’s head, there on the floor.

_He’s with you now, Saemus. Take care of each other._

… and yes, finally, there he is, watching her approach. Waiting for her. The storm made manifest. The Arishok, proud and unshakable in the seat of power of a place he utterly loathes.

“ _Shanedan_ , Hawke. I expected you.” He follows that with a whole lot of Qunari she probably ought to know, which makes the next words even more amusing as he glances at the crowd. “This is what respect looks like, _bas_. Some of you will never earn it.”

_I’m a half-Ferelden turned farmer turned smuggler turned noble. I broke all your rules and I wasn’t even trying._

How ridiculous it all is, and he doesn’t even know. Hawke wonders how much she thinks she knows that’s just as absurd. It shouldn’t be possible to know so little and yet do so much damage. 

The Arishok looks as calm and indifferent as ever, but Hawke can see the self-satisfaction in him, even so. No closer to his goal, but at least he has found some outlet for his frustration. He seems mostly untouched by the night’s battles, while she can feel the crust of sweat drying on her skin. Her arms ache, fighting the Qunari just different enough from fighting humans or dwarves that she’s been overreaching for most of the night. 

“So tell me, Hawke. You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without it?”

As if he doesn’t know. As if she’s not spattered with the blood of half of his crew. They could have finished this all at the docks and saved everyone else the time.

Hawke’s vaguely aware of the press of well-dressed human wallpaper all around them, the crowd of wide-eyed nobles watching in silence - and Maker’s balls, there’s the Seneschal. Bran’s still alive somehow, though far paler than even his usual sallow tone, barely looking like himself without his usual sneer. Hawke wonders if he was there, if he had to watch the Viscount die. At least one person here will get some well-deserved satisfaction out of watching the Arishok pulp her to a liquid.

Hawke’s considering whether or not to just draw her knives as a reply when the door behind them crashes open, the Qunari who’d been kicked through it groaning on the floor. Isabela steps on his back, striding toward them with a fierce glint in her eye and the Tome in her hand.

“I believe I can answer that.”

Hawke feels her stomach drop, as whatever great, invisible hand has been turning the world on its side all night chooses this moment to flip it all over again. It’s happened so often that they’ve _got_ to be running out of sides, not that it really matters. Nothing matters, because Isabela _came back_. 

“The Tome of Koslun…” Such a cautious gentleness in the gesture, as the Arishok takes it from her. A real reverence in his voice, a mix of honor and longing, and in his soft tone Hawke can hear the sound of his homecoming.

All of this, over a book. Just words on a page, and the page isn’t even the important part. The Tome has to have been copied innumerable times already, translated into as many languages as there are _viddithari_. Hawke doubts that it’s written anywhere inside that anyone should have to die over a bundle of leather and parchment and ink. The Arishok had suffered all this time, exiled and losing hope, sacrificing himself and his men - so many dead in Kirkwall, all for this? Hawke wonders about the Qunari who wrote the Tome, and if he’d ever wanted it to be a Tome, or a relic. If he’d be so quick to agree that the Qunari waste nothing.

It feels like a lifetime since she’s looked at Isabela, and Hawke’s heart is doing all sorts of stupid things she’s glad no one can see. She doesn’t dare turn away, for fear the pirate will vanish just as quick, and prove it all as wishful thinking. Hawke probably should be saying something but the only thought she has tumbles over and over in time with her heartbeat - _you came back you came back you came back._

“It took me a while to get here, what with all the fighting everywhere. You know how it is.” 

An apology there, but Isabela’s not sure it will be welcome, just peeking from the edges of her careless tone. Maker, but she’s breathtaking, and Hawke tries and fails again to imagine how anyone who could see Isabela as she is could ever want her caged.

“Heroic acts of sacrifice? What will people say?”

“This is your damned influence, Hawke. I was halfway to Ostwick before I knew I had to turn ‘round. It’s pathetic.” 

Isabela manages to make it sound almost convincing, but she goes still when their eyes finally meet. Everything they’ve been talking around all this time? Everything Hawke’s been holding back, trying not to scare her away? Yeah, there’s not really a point in pretending anymore.

“The relic is reclaimed,” The Arishok rumbles. “I am now free to return to Par Vollen… with the thief.”

“What?!” Isabela says, but Hawke is already in between them, pushing her back and staring up as the Qunari looms over her. She’s trembling and it’s all rage now, an eager ferocity because of course it wasn’t going to be that easy, it just couldn’t ever be take-the-book-and-go. If she were a mabari she’d be growling and Hawke can’t say she isn’t tempted. 

He shifts the axe against his shoulder, a casual gesture that flexes a bicep more or less the size of her head. He’s not even trying to be intimidating.

“She stole the Tome of Koslun. She must return with us.”

Hawke laughs in his face, because really, what else is there to do? The Arishok does not look at all surprised.

“You have your relic. She stays here.”

Damned if Hawke doesn’t see the spark of satisfaction deep in those fathomless eyes. It reminds her of that moment outside the docks so many years ago, the knowing that she ought to know better, with that first tiny drop of the inevitable tempest. A manic fury, a truly mad sort of elation, skittering through her as it all finally comes full circle. Everything that’s gone wrong, every tragedy she’s been too late or too stupid to get in front of - it all stops here and now. The Arishok doesn’t smile, he never smiles, but it’s there anyway. 

He wants this. It might be an obligation but that doesn’t mean he can’t still want it. Drawing his sword against her, facing one he has deemed worthy after so many frustrated years? Taking Kirkwall was no glorious victory - but defeating her himself, finally conquering the willful _basalit-an_? What a triumph that will be.

Hawke doesn’t know how to break it to him that most of the nobles in this room only know her name so that they can keep praying she’ll move out of Hightown.

If he kills her here, he’ll finally able to rid himself of the problem of having to respect what he doesn’t understand, what looks enough like him and acts enough like him but still refuses to bend. The Arishok might as well be a Templar, or one of Fenris’ Magisters, all of it the same tune with a slightly different rhythm - obedience or annihilation and there is no other path. It’s personal this time, at least, and she should probably feel honored for getting so far under his skin. 

Freedom in surrender. Does he really think she doesn’t know what it means? The things that anchor her are no different that his Qun, they define her no less completely, and require no less sacrifice. Hawke might not have the same words for it, but she still knows what’s worth dying for.

Maybe that’s why she’d known it from the start, that it would have to come to this. Maybe the Arishok knew it too.

“You leave me no choice. You and I will battle to the death, with her as the prize.” 

The little girl from Ferelden versus the heart of the Qunari military force. It’s what he is, the sum and total of his existence defined by what’s happening in this room, in this fight. On one hand, that makes it an honor, the highest honor he can give her. 

On the other, it means he’s spent his entire life training for the opportunity to toss her mangled carcass up one side of the throne room and down the other.

_Joy._

Isabela protests. Hawke can hardly hear it over the pounding of her heart. It’s fear, and it’s anticipation, the world around her washed bright and sharp and clean as the fury keeps pouring in. The dark and howling thing that has been with her long enough that she can barely remember what life was like before. The Arishok is to blame for only the smallest fraction of that, but the anger doesn’t care. Hawke has been wanting to hurt something for quite a long time, and he is a very big something.

“All right. Let’s dance.”


	5. Isabela

The sea takes everything. The past, the pain, the mistakes - all joys and all sorrows vanish equally beneath the waves. No judgment or hesitation, and nothing gets left behind. 

Hawke’s caught her watching, even when Isabela doesn’t notice she’s staring out to sea, or making some noise of appreciation at a rather pretty ship that’s come in overnight. Hawke never says anything, just her usual grin or a sweet, wistful kind of smile, a reminder that Kirkwall isn’t her home either. Isabela had never expected they’d have so much in common, two rogues with restless feet, competitively filthy senses of humor and one eye forever fixed to the horizon. This isn’t close to the first time Isabela’s stolen something from Hawke, taking trinkets, jewels and spare blades from the mansion just to see how long it will take for her to steal them back, or what she might run off with in revenge.

If Isabela waits long enough, will she wake up to a knife at her throat, Hawke finally coming to claim what she can? Is it disappointing, that she already knows it’s not in Hawke’s nature?

Isabela gives the question to the sea, looking up at the few stars bright enough to challenge the moon, and guides the boat a little further away from the shore.

Being on the waves is the closest Isabela’s ever known to peace, to anything she can imagine as a constant, as greater-than and untouchable. Which is why nothing’s been quite right since she’s lost the _Call_. Oh, certainly, she can manage on land, she’ll always find a way to manage, but it’s nothing compared to even sneaking a leaky, piss-poor dinghy out of the bay and on to the open sea. It’s been far too long with nothing but steady ground beneath her feet, and every day the same. The taste of the clean night air fills her now, cold enough to make her shiver but it’s worth it, worth everything. The ocean makes few promises and none of them particularly kind, but at least Isabela knows they’ll be kept.

Her escape is perfect, and just in time, as the Qunari finally figure out their relic isn’t coming back. The waves in her wake flicker orange and gold, with cries of panic and fury carrying across the water. Kirkwall tears itself apart with an almost gleeful fervor, but the sounds fade once she’s out around the first cliff, leaving her alone with the night. The sea is quiet, and soon enough she’ll be able to ditch this wobbly bathtub, pay her debts, and have nothing left hanging over her head. 

Of course, her ports of call might be limited for a little while. Rivain is never a place Isabela longs for and decidedly off the map now, at least until the Qunari find another outrage to occupy their time. Antiva… no doubt Castillon will try to get her in his pocket - among other places, if her luck continues to be such perfect shit - and so, the south? Kirkwall, obviously, will never be worth the risk, and if Hawke ever convinces the Chantry Princess to return to Starkhaven, the whole of the Marches might very well be worth writing off for the foreseeable future. 

Spending all that time watching boats in the harbor, and somehow Isabela hadn’t really considered this moment, or the aftermath. It had been bad enough just to watch the ships in port, worse still when they left, the yearning filling her up until nothing else remained as she watched them catch the wind. Working out the speed by habit, knowing how they’d have to trim the sails and wondering where they’d find themselves by week’s end. It had always been a bit foolish to risk walking the docks, what with the Qunari and all, but there was no helping it. Hawke understood the need, taking any excuse herself to go wander the cliffs or the forests outside of town - Isabela had even seen her looking out at the waves with a sort of speculative calculation, more than once.

Pirates aren’t for romance, for all the songs and stories and Varric’s insistence that sword fights in ball gowns push more copies. Isabela never had any ambitions of lingering on once her business was done. She’d never thought that all it would take was boosting Bethany from the Gallows - fun, really, and Hawke already had half a dozen plans for how to make it happen - and there’d be no reason for any of them to stay on dry land. It wouldn’t take Hawke a week to learn the rigging, and Fenris could scowl when they tried to dress him up for cabin boy and she’d have the start of a very pretty, exceedingly useful crew with next to no effort at all.

When she tells the tale of this dramatic escape, Isabela will have to leave out the part where the boat smells like dead goat from stem to stern, how the wind is annoyingly inconsistent, and the way her knees hurt and her ass has gone completely numb. The dark, vast emptiness of the sea calls to her, but Isabela doesn’t dare take such a small craft out to meet it. It’s less spectacular than the story deserves, but she’ll have to keep a close eye and run along the edge of the coast all the way down instead. 

At least she managed a little bit of payback for the crew she’d lost, to tangle the Qunari up so badly in Kirkwall. They’d invested too heavily, as they always did, maybe expecting another Rivain, easily converted - but nothing grew in Kirkwall, the city as barren and inhospitable to the Qun as to most everything else. Who knew how long they’d look now, how many walls they’d knock down before they’d admit she’s slipped their grasp? The Arishok thought to catch a thief when he was dealing with a Queen. No matter the challenge, Isabela is smarter, and faster - and when that doesn’t work, selfish enough to survive.

Damn right, she thinks, jerking the rudder on the tiny sloop hard against the current, and she’d never lied about it, either. Cutting her losses, knowing when to run - Isabela never made a single promise to anyone, and there wasn’t a soul in Kirkwall who didn’t know who exactly who she was and what she was about. A roll in the sheets here or there didn’t change the fact that no one was ever going to step up on her behalf - she’d learned that lesson young, the hard way. Hawke certainly hadn’t been on her side, with Isabela’s life in one hand and the book in the other, and her decision already made.

_So that’s how you’re going to remember her?_

“No.” Isabela says out loud, soft enough to be lost in the hush of the boat pushing through the water. It’s a quiet night, insurrections notwithstanding. It’ll be fair enough weather clear through to the morning and no, Hawke never lied about what she was, either. Isabela had known before she’d even asked, that Hawke couldn’t let her keep the book, even if she wanted to. It was what made her who she was, what made even the most ridiculous of Varric’s stories sell so well - the most unbelievable parts, the ones about nobility and sacrifice, those were all true.

It’s the reason Isabela can look out into the dark and imagine exactly where Hawke is now - no doubt staring down the worst of what the Qunari have to offer with both blades drawn, not backing down an inch. It’ll be a fight for the history books, especially with Varric there to write them. It might very well be a war.

Fenris will protect her, of course. The two of them, the complicated puzzle of what they are - Isabela’s glad she’s a simple creature, a lot easier just being lazy and happy to get a leg over when she can - but the elf will burn beside Hawke before he’d ever leave her to hang. As if that could ever happen. Hawke’s bloody dauntless, whatever she can’t talk herself out of, she just goes through it, every time. She’ll come out of this the same as before, with a laugh and a bit of scorched armor and one more story to tell. Aveline will have her back, and that scowl can make anyone think twice, horns or no. 

Hawke has all the friends she needs, the ones who aren’t carrying around liabilities like rusted keys on a ring, with all the locks gone or changed or forgotten, now good for nothing but making too much noise, too heavy to be worth carrying for long.

It might be a good thing, if Isabela stops thinking about what no longer matters, and keeps her attention on what’s in front of her instead. Any more distractions, and she’s liable to skim the coast too close and dash herself on the rocks, and there’s already been enough of that to last her a couple of lifetimes. Let the sea take it, let it take everything until she’s standing a thousand miles away talking up stories over free pints, of how she got one up on the Arishok himself.

Hawke will be fine, she always is. 

Isabela twists, looking back at the sound of an muffled explosion in the distance, echoing across the water, the glow of Kirkwall still like an ember against the dark, even past the towering cliffs. A matter of magic, or Qunari alchemy? It hardly matters, but if they’d somehow managed to make enough of _that_ \- and really, not enough problems of your own, Isabela? As if her escape means she’s got nothing left to worry about - most pressingly, to make sure Castillon agrees to square the debt between them, and she’s running a bit shy on backup if he’s feeling less than aboveboard. 

No one needs her to be in Kirkwall. No one needs her, period. Count it up, and it’s easy to see that Isabela ruins far more than she’s ever put to rights, making life hard for her enemies and far harder for her friends and it just… it doesn’t matter. The sea knows the score, that there aren’t any lessons to be learned or any morals worth living up to.

It’s true, it is, that Hawke reminded her of a sailor she’d had once on the _Call_ , but she never should have said so. It meant Hawke had been waiting for the punchline when there just wasn’t one. He’d been a good man on and off the ship, rarely without a smile. The sort to throw coins to beggar children and whistle tunes she’d never heard and not try to stab her in the back or grab her ass at the first opportunity, which put him above most in her acquaintance. He’d been funny and loyal and then over the side, dead and gone just like that. Lost to the waves and the wind as if he never was. For all she knows, Isabela is the only one to remember he’d ever been alive.

If fortune stands so indifferent and all the gods care so little, then there’s nothing really worth fighting for. Fleeting pleasures, that’s the only truth worth knowing: freedom and gold and good, loud nights, with the rest just grasping for shadows. Isabela has murdered a husband and captained a ship and had her way with the Hero of Ferelden, and what else is there worth having?

Her lost sailor, he’d asked her about love, just as Hawke had. He’d listened to her reasons just the same, and had never brought it up again. Hawke hadn’t either, and Isabel pretended not to see the look in her eyes, somewhere between question and invitation in every moment that had followed. Isabela pretended it was all for Fenris because enough of it certainly was and it didn’t matter either way. The offer was irrelevant, the pirate with one foot on sea and one on shore and ready to leave the moment the relic popped up in the world. Hawke was always just a bit of fun while she waited around, and if there had been some misunderstanding in that - not her fault, not her problem.

The waves will take it all, including the look on Hawke’s face, the one Isabela never saw, when she got outside to find a dead man and the Tome long gone.

What kind of pirate bothered with a note? As if anyone, even Hawke would care for the reason she’d been left to twist in the wind.

Isabela nudges the book with the toe of her boot. Stupid, bloody useless paperweight. If her whole damned life wasn’t riding on getting it back to it to Castillon, she would have pitched it over the side a dozen times by now, or sold it to the highest bidder herself.

_Or given it back._

The problem with the great, vast ocean is that it has no use at all for the Queen of the Eastern Seas. No one here to witness her bravado, her posturing. No one to believe in her lies - so Isabela can sigh, and know the ache in her gut has nothing to do with worrying over hidden rocks beneath the waves, or worrying for a pursuit that’s never going to come. She’s won, free and clear, all ties cut. The thought ought to be a relief. She doesn’t feel relieved - she’s doing little more than running back to Castillon with her tail between her legs and everyone will know how easily he brought her to heel. 

Isabela didn’t start all this to become the type of person who could overstep herself, or to be so easily put in her place.

No one is here to know that what this little boat really reminds her of is the last time she sailed one, some absurd race across Kirkwall’s harbor that Hawke dragged her into at the last moment. Isabela had tried to protest that being the captain of one boat didn’t mean she could sail them all, especially when the ship in question was little more than a leaky bucket with a bed sheet attached. Hawke had insisted, though - and so all too soon they’d been pulling past all of the competition, their little skiff threatening to tip with each gust of wind. 

Isabela wondered just how a landlocked girl would take to the waves, but Hawke picked it up fast, knew how to follow orders and before long both of them had been leaning back into a turn as if they’d been sailing together always, the ship nearly on its side and the water like a wall only inches away. Hawke laughed and yelped as they were splashed by sea foam, her eyes bright and hair dragged and tousled in every direction, windswept and sun-scoured and Isabela could only stare, and want, not even certain of what she wanted. 

It should have been just lust and satisfaction, that’s been enough for years and years, but somehow, when she hadn’t been looking, Hawke had crept in and took more than the pirate had ever wanted to give - and Isabela wants to be sorry for it. It would be so much better, to regret feeling this way. 

The wind shifts, and she makes no attempt to shift with it, the sail going slack, the waves clunking in irritation against what passes for a hull as Isabela sits there in the dark, her ass still completely numb, with the relic digging into her shin and the promise she’d made to herself in this exact kind of silence, with a cooling body on the floor and the elf she had to thank for it halfway out the window. Zevran looking back at her, wondering why she hesitated. 

A promise Isabela had made for this new life, her real life. One she’d live boldly and bravely, with only her own rules to govern her and damn few of those, and that whatever happened, she’d never give up on what she wanted, no matter what she wanted. 

It’s a clean escape from Kirkwall, anyone would think so - but Isabela knows better.

She leans forward, elbows to knees and her hands up in what might look like prayer if there wasn’t so much cleavage involved. Arguing back and forth with herself, when nothing’s actually in doubt.

_Damn it, girl, you’re smarter than this._

No, no she really isn’t. Isabela’s more ruthless than this, that’s for certain, and it’ll look like skill with a little bit of time and embellishment. She travels among a favored band of bastards who benefit from scorning all the same things, talking up their victories and explaining away their defeats, shrugging off anything more complicated. Maybe a tear shed here and there with the wrong song and a few too many drinks, but that’s life, isn’t it? No place for sentiment. It’s not an opinion, that a hand on her gold and an eye on the door is the only way to play the game.

It’s the way that Zevran played it, and he’d been the one to start this whole thing off, hadn’t he? He’d survived longer than any Crow had the right to, even if only a quarter of his stores were true. Dead or alive, Isabela always thought he’d be a constant, an example of how things ought to be done.

She hadn’t expected to cross paths with him at the Pearl, let alone discover he’d taken up with the Gray Wardens, and with the Blight bearing down on them no less. However he’d gotten himself into it, if he didn’t have an escape plan Isabela was certain she was supposed to provide one. It hadn’t been the entire reason to invite two rather handsome elves aboard her ship for the night, but she assumed when all was said and done she would not be leaving Denerim alone.

It had always been easy having Zevran in her bed. There were no expectations and few secrets between them, the pleasure comfortable and his body a familiar path to travel, though Isabela made note of a few new scars here and there, mementos from this new adventure. The Warden had been a pleasantly uncomplicated addition, more than willing to give as good as he got, his technique simple but memorable enough, and she’d been honestly touched by the gratitude in his eyes somewhere in the middle of things, very happy to savor any moments where no one was trying to set him on fire or use his bones for whetstones.

Still, she was surprised how quickly and completely the Warden fell asleep amidst such company, either foolish or brave or just that exhausted. He’d made a few sounds along the way that weren’t out of pleasure, shifting the pressure off of a knee or an arm, and bracketed between them he seemed nearly ashen, pale even for a Ferelden. Zevran sighed contentedly, though she could see the tension beneath his long-practiced indifference. It would be the right thing for the both of them to be little more than a footnote in this fight. 

Sweaty and rumpled and feeling momentarily fond of everything, Isabela had propped herself up on one arm, and watched Zevran watch the other elf sleep. Funny how little in common she had with the man who called himself her husband, when there was so much that could go unspoken between her and the elf who had killed him.

The assassin glanced around the room, and smiled, so slow and languid it seemed he might never actually get there. “You’ve been treating her well. The _Call_ is almost as beautiful as her captain.”

Amazing how many men thought that complimenting Isabela was the way to gain her favor. Zevran, of course, had always known better.

“I could say the same for you.” She gestured with one bare foot, to where the assassin’s armor had been piled in the corner. “I’ve half a mind to keep you bare and send you down the plank for the blades alone.” Isabela glanced down at the sleeping Warden, “If he set you up with all that, I’d better be invited to the wedding.”

Zevran liked to feign carelessness, blood on his knives and heart on his sleeve and nothing else of consequence. Isabela did too, it was how she knew that he was always lying, and he did not try to cover up the emotions that passed across his face, all the shades of affection and rueful sorrow and regret.

“I am more useful to him undamaged, and he is more soft-hearted than he thinks he is.” As if to prove the point, the Warden murmured softly in his sleep, curling a bit closer to Zevran. The assassin reached down, smiled gently as he tucked a few strands of the Warden’s hair back behind a pointed ear. “We are each making the best of a bad situation.”

“It could be better, if you wanted.” However he’d fell in with the Warden and his small army, there were about a million chances it would not end well. “I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but if you want out-”

“I’ve left the Crows, Isabela.”

It didn’t surprise her. Nothing Zevran did could ever be more than she imaigined he was capable of, but it certainly changed the situation, even when the situation was currently being overrun by darkspawn.

“I could hang you from the yardarm and it’d be less of a death sentence.” Zevran didn’t flinch at that, or try to feed her a line or make a joke of it. He had no bright-eyed plan, no strategy, not even trying to fake one. He just looked sad, and distant and it didn’t suit him at all. It was frightening, truth be told, and that certainly didn’t suit her. “Unless you’re planning to feed yourself to an Archdemon before they can get to you.”

The question hung there. Isabela needed to know - what happened - and for a moment he was sure she wouldn’t answer.

“… there was a girl.”

He didn’t need to say more, the four words explanation enough for the kind of people they were, and the lives they led. Not when there had already been a thousand girls or more, for the both of them, not counting the ones they’d shared. Singling one out - _was_ , there _was_ a girl - it meant everything had changed, and this was no longer about taking what he could and getting out of the way, or of plotting or double-crossing his way back into good graces. The elf who’d taught her the necessity of an exit strategy no longer wanted one.

“At least tell me she wasn’t a mark, Zev.” Isabela said, and couldn't help sounding a little amused - he would, it was just the sort of thing he would do, but when Zevran chuckled there was no life in it at all - so, it really had been that bad.

“No, nothing so shameful as that.”

He offered no more information, and there was no real point in asking.

At the time, Isabela had pitied him, and not for the reasons anyone else might have, not that he’d lost a love but that there had been anyone he’d let hurt him so badly in the first place. It was as if Zevran had sacrificed a limb or went blind or some other massive calamity, no longer an asset but a liability, especially to himself. Of all the people in the world to let himself get lamed like that, she’d have never even put Zevran’s name on the list. Now she’s practically got the pen down, ready to write her own name under his. All for a Ferelden farm girl who’d probably take the book from her and then beat her to death with it. If Aveline didn’t get there first.

Isabela doesn’t see much use in contemplation, not past the necessities of ‘what’s worth stealing’ and ‘how do we get it’ and ‘who do we fence it off to once we have it?’ It’s easier to react and keep reacting, to run and run until the running becomes its own kind of life and everyone she knows lives the same, in no one’s interest to ask for much or give more than they have to.

_Until you’re old, drunk and bitter, and explaining away your sins to the bitter, old drunks?_

At least she’d be alive to do the drinking. Everything Isabela lost, the _Call_ , the crew, the sea, her freedom, she’d lost in a moment of selflessness. Hasn’t she learned her damned lesson by now?

The sea can take this - even this, even Hawke, if she lets it.

“Sod it, Isabela, of all the _times_ …” she rolls her eyes skyward and trails off, because there’s nothing else that needs saying, not with her mind made up and every emotion slipping free of even her best knots. It’s over, she’s lost. The only thing left to do is make use of the fact that no one can see her determinedly stomping on the Qunari’s holy relic several times before she turns the ship around. 

\-----------------------------------

Isabela knows the reward for good, honest deeds and so it’s no surprise that the Qunari catch sight of her before she’s even off the boat. There are fewer of them than she’d expected, little more than what they need to guard their compound on the docks, which means the Arishok isn’t just searching for her, not anymore, but is trying to take the city for his own.

_He’s gone mad, the Marches will never let him keep it._ The Orlesians would send an army for the Grand Cleric alone - but those are concerns for much, much later, when spears aren’t slicing the air all around her.

Of course she’s their prime target - the only target, with the rest of the docks deserted, the lucky ships already far out at sea and more than a few blazing, half-sunk where they’re moored. Still, there’s the matter of the relic in her hands and Isabela’s not above holding it out in front of her more than once, watching a blade freeze on the downward stroke before lashing out with a strike of her own at an unfortunately pious opponent. The Qunari she doesn’t take down are easy enough to lose in the chaotic tumble of Kirkwall’s back alleys. The city’s always been a bit shit, so at first it’s hard to tell the difference between damage done and the usual mud and blood, but the higher she goes the more the whole city still looks like Lowtown. Doors torn from hinges and bodies in the streets, piles of flaming wreckage and scorched stones - Isabela’s usually smart enough to avoid walking through an aftermath, let alone one that’s not quite ‘after,’ and every instinct she has is screaming turn and run. As she makes her way up, following the path of devastation, more of those bodies are in guard armor, and Templar armor, or wearing horns.

It’s the reason Rivain chose parlay, all those years ago, even if it’s all just slow subjugation to the same end. The thought of any other fate was preferable to this. Isabela would die and gladly before she’d ever convert, and there are many who say the same, but noble goals and vows of sacrifice are harder to hold onto in the center of a burning city.

Hightown is quiet, chillingly so when she knows what it means, and finally Isabela reaches what must be the front lines, skirting a pitched battle between a large force of Templars, a few guardsmen and a Qunari squadron. The sounds of pain and metal striking metal echo all along the street, as if a vast and angry beast is being slowly torn to pieces.

The Templars at the Keep seem to be holding their position, with fallen Qunari scattered haphazardly in the square, and Isabela can see a few of the bodies have been badly burned, another body headless and slowly thawing, the torso contorted and frozen in mid-strike. It isn’t long after that Isabela finds the mages who’ve done the damage, gathered together with a few of the Templars, either for defense or to keep them contained, hard to say. The uninjured, those with magic to spare are healing themselves or their friends, or huddled together in small groups, speaking quietly. A few others stare off into space, or glance nervously around, flinching at every loud sound.

So she’s come back for nothing, if they’ve fortified themselves this well, rallied the mages and kept the Qunari at bay. Wherever the Arishok has gone, it obviously isn’t here and the Templars have things under control. Well done, Isabela, mounting a rescue no one needed.

“Isabela?”

A mage peers out from behind the bulk of a Templar - she’d been speaking urgently to him, Isabela hadn’t picked up on the conversation and now wishes she had, since it’s Bethany blinking back at her, and the girl is a wreck. Pale and dazed, with that look that suggests too much magic used too quickly, it’s clear she’s responsible for at least some of the carnage spread out around them. There are tears in her eyes.

“Hello, sweetling,” Isabela says, even though the words curdle in her mouth, even her very-real relief tasting sour. It’s hard to be a pirate for long before even the honest feelings seem cheaply plated. It doesn’t help that most of this - all of it - is her doing. It’s clear Bethany has no notion of what Isabela’s done, rushing forward without a second glance at the book under her arm. It’s hard to tell what the Templars know, either glaring at her to a purpose or just out of habit, she can’t say. Isabela ignores them for the moment, hugging Bethany tightly with her free arm, the girl holding back hard.

“I’m glad you’re all right. Any sign of your sister in this mess?”

Bethany steps back, even paler than a moment before, one hand over her mouth as Isabela reaches for the other.

“I’ve done something. Oh, Isabela, I’ve done something terrible.”

The odds are well in the pirate’s favor on that count, but Isabela still doesn’t like the look on the girl’s face.

“I’m sure it can’t be all that bad.”

Bethany shakes her head sharply, and a few tears finally fall. “She’s up there. At the Keep, with the Arishok.”

No solid line of defense, this is a group of Templars making some meager attempt to catch up.

“All right, so it can be that bad.” Isabela amends, but this is what she came for, right? For reasons that will someday make sense to someone. “It’ll be okay now, I’ll make sure of that.”

“No, it won’t. You don’t understand, she was here. She wanted… I knew what she wanted…. to let her know it wasn’t, that I wasn’t… and I…” Bethany fists her hands, before dropping them limply at her sides. “I knew it hurt her, I knew I was hurting her and I didn’t, I was so _stupid_ and now - now she’s in there and I _didn’t_ …”

“It’s all right.” Isabela reaches out, strokes her hair, wipes a tear away with confidence, as if she has any idea what the truth might be. As if five minutes ago she hadn’t been ready to turn tail and run all the way back to the harbor. “It’s all right. I’m going to fix this.”

“How?”

“You let me worry about that.”

It sounds good. Varric would approve, and as Isabela moves up the steps of the Keep, through the door, seeing the Qunari guard at the other end she knows this is all just a very, very stupid idea that no one’s going to thank her for. Still, there are worse things in this world than doing what’s right by a pretty little mage who deserves better. Isabela’s been lucky, luckier than she knows she deserves, and it’s time to give a little back. She will go in there and make sure for once in her miserable life that no one else pays for her stupid mistake. No more praise for false bravery, no more pride in artifice - it’s time to do what’s right.

\---------------------------------------------------

Hawke is going to fight the Arishok for her sake.

Isabela’s gloriously stupid self-sacrifice is not supposed to happen like this. It never happens like this when _Hawke_ does it. Isabela’s supposed to get other people killed when she makes bad decisions and selfish choices, not when she’s trying to fix them. 

Just look at her, Hawke staring up at the Arishok like a mabari facing down a dragon, all ferocity and no appreciation of the fact that he’s two, maybe three times bigger than she is. It’s one thing to fight an ogre, they’re slow and dumb. Or to take on any number of foes with allies or in a dark alley, anywhere with a clear advantage and a plan. Hawke has no plan for this. There _is_ no plan for this.

Isabela protests, but it’s like she’s not even in the room. The Arishok sets the terms and Hawke agrees and then everyone’s moving, the Qunari guard herding the nobles up and out of the way, clearing the floor of bodies as the Arishok returns to the throne. Isabela’s still stunned enough that when Aveline’s hand clamps down on her arm she doesn’t even try to pull free, allowing herself to be led to the side of the room. Hawke is already busy checking over her gear, each knife and lace and knot and buckle, most of it already soaked in blood. Isabela’s watched the careful regimen countless times, nothing new to see but now she can’t look away. It isn’t supposed to be like this - and that’s when Hawke looks up and Isabela steels herself for the worst. If she wants to throw that punch, the least Isabela can do is take it.

Hawke kisses her, hard and fast and clumsy, so that when they part Isabela’s bandanna is slightly askew and at least she was already reeling so there’s no chance of looking any more stupid now.

“You came back.” It isn’t an accusation. It’s uncomfortably close to a benediction, with Hawke staring as if she can’t quite believe her luck. At least the rest of them aren’t so pleased, Varric not even trying to hide his worry and Sebastian glaring daggers into her every orifice between near-frantic looks at Hawke. She’d expected Aveline to be angry, but the look on her face is much closer to disgust. It’s usually a lot easier not to care about disgust. No one else is with them, and she can understand Anders and Merrill perhaps making themselves scarce, but-

“Where’s Fenris?”

She regrets asking the moment she speaks, Captain Isabela, Queen of the Not Helping, as Hawke’s fingers pause for a moment in their careful check, a dark and ragged look flickering for a moment beneath her cool determination.

“I don’t know. Did you see my sister out there? Is she safe?”

“Bethany’s fine. You’ve got the Keep, the Templars are out front and gaining ground - Hawke, you don’t have to do this.”

The front of the hall is clear now, and instead of listening to reason Hawke studies the layout, eyes darting here and there as if she can see the fight to come. 

“Plenty of room to maneuver.” She taps the toe of her boot against the stone. “The floors are a bit slick.”

_Worse once there’s blood on them,_ Isabela thinks. The nobles are murmuring to each other, the low sound sloshing back and forth across the room. Hawke reaches for the clasp at her throat, undoes the chain on her mother’s locket and passes it to Sebastian.

“Hold onto this for a moment, will you?”

He takes it silently, though Isabela can tell he wants to speak, wants to protest. All of them do, but no one’s saying a word.

“You know,” Hawke says lightly. Grinning. “There was a woman in Lothering who never smiled and smelled like moldy pickles and always said I was meant for a bad end. She’d enjoy this.”

“Hawke…” 

“I think my best strategy is ‘don’t’.”

“Hawke.”

“Maybe I can get him to agree to a poisoning first? Like a handicap?” 

“Damn you, Hawke!” Isabela grabs her by the shoulders, shaking hard. “Listen to me! I’m not going to let you do this.”

Isabela’s not facing down the Arishok, so why does Hawke look so calm? The grin is gone, her smile too gentle, too understanding, and it’s all Isabela can do not to slap her.

“It’s yours, Izzy. I was going to tell you, but there was never a good time. I suppose a bad time will have to do.”

Isabela frowns. “What are you-?”

“The estate. Bethany can’t inherit, and I’m sure as hell not giving it to Gamlen. I split it all down the center, between you and Fenris, right after Mother died.”

“You… what?” Isabela says again, but not because she doesn’t understand. “You crazy Ferelden _bitch_ , I’m not that good in bed!”

Hawke grins, then. The usual one, the ‘I’m so lucky to have friends that force me into duels to the death’ that scares Isabela for all those reasons she doesn’t want to put into words.

“Sell the house, buy a ship.” Hawke says quickly, quietly, unaware of how Isabela’s crumbling. “Take Orana with you. Teach her how to climb a mast and spit over the side. I think Karolis will probably end up with Varric. Don’t take it the wrong way, he still likes you.”

“I don’t want a bloody ship, Hawke!”

“Oh, we both know that’s not true.”

A motion catches Isabela eye, and the both of them turn at the same time. At the throne, the Arishok’s drawing his sword with careful attention, the movement as gentle as a lover and the blade nearly as long as Hawke is tall.

He’s still got the axe in his other hand.

“Maker’s balls,” Hawke breathes, her eyes round and that little smile still perched on her face, as if would flee but doesn’t know where to go. “My coffin’s going to be the size of a hatbox.”

“ _Hawke._ ”

“Promise me, Izzy. Just don’t let that son of a bitch from Tevinter get his hands on Fenris.” 

“Come, _basalit-an_.” The Arishok says, not raising his voice as he steps down to the floor, though it echoes like thunder and the room goes silent. “I wish to see the measure of you.”

Hawke smiles at her, eyes flicking to Aveline and Sebastian and Varric as if trying to fix the moment fast in her mind, and with one more look at Isabela she’s gone, knives sliding into her hands with her usual, smooth carelessness. Aveline has a hand on her shoulder, tight enough to hurt, but it’s hard to tell if the guard captain is holding her in place or using Isabela to keep herself steady. Sebastian is praying under his breath, she can hear it, and then the soft sound disappears entirely beneath the scream of blades meeting.


End file.
